A Session with Doctor Ehc'zi

Comments

• Czixi

  July 2019

  This RP log is brought to you by "frantically searching Google for diagrams of bird skeletons".

  6
• Trahey

  July 2019

  The scrabbling was mutual.

  Poke the Hand of Doom for commissions.

  5
• Daraius Shevat The juror's taco spot

  July 2019 edited July 2019

  Met Aiya today, 10/10 would chat again. I wonder who in the world could teach Trahey about reaching a state of profound peace and relaxation?

  I used to make cakes.
  
  Estarra the Eternal says, "Give Shevat the floor please."

  4
• Daraius Shevat The juror's taco spot

  October 2019

  Sadly, I'm not sure if this wonderful line of RP will continue, but there were some additional chapters involving Trahey, Doctor Ehc'zi, and yours truly.
  
  
  

  1 Roarkian, 535 C.E.

  
  

  His tone laced with a gentle growl, Daraius says, "Not to put too fine a point on it, but I'm quite pleased."

  
  

  "And I am happy to hear you are, sir," Trahey answers. There is still some sentiment remaining in his gaze, something a little hopeful and a little sad. "I just hope I'll actually feel like a Shevat to all of you, one day."

  
  

  Daraius cants his head quizzically, a subtle tension thrumming about his aura. "Who has given you cause to feel otherwise?" he asks, bemused.

  
  

  Daraius asks, "Has a grandpup of mine questioned your legitimacy?"

  
  

  His eyes dimming, Daraius says, "I can correct them if needed."

  
  

  Trahey blinks, only realising the melancholy in his own tone on Daraius's reaction. He takes a moment to answer, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Me and not quite me, sir," he says, "but before I elaborate - if needed - I must say I hope nobody else has done what you suggested?"

  
  

  A tawny gryphon with grey-feathered wings talons the ground with a fierce shriek, his wings spreading gloriously behind him.

  
  

  Daraius rests one paw on the gryphon's beak to quiet him, returning his attention to Trahey. "No," he states firmly. "I've heard no objection to your consideration."

  
  

  A tawny gryphon with grey-feathered wings bobs his head several times just before trotting off.

  
  

  "Good," Trahey exhales. He rolls his shoulders and gives his mane a little shake - subtly taking a step towards one of the bridges as he does so.

  
  

  Trahey tells Daraius, "Might there be a nice private spot to discuss matters like these, sir?"

  
  

  Daraius tells Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard, "Of course. I was about to suggest finding a more comfortable venue."

  
  

  Trahey begins to follow Daraius.

  
  

  Stepping to the edge of a mist-filled quartz fountain, Daraius runs the tips of his fingers across the surface of the roiling mists. The mist expands to fill his vision and as the grey haze recedes he finds himself elsewhere.

  
  

  An intimate wood-paneled parlour.

  Banks of clouds roil about here. A sturdy staircase of rich mahogany descends with stately precision along the octagonal outer walls of this handsomely appointed parlour, each of the eight corner landings supported by wooden columns etched with intricate knotwork patterning. Sunlight, moonlight, and the glow of the surrounding spires pour through arched berylline windows at the top of each wood-paneled wall, illuminating the space with a warm, steady lambency that highlights the robust tones of polished cedar and rosewood that grace the rest of the parlour. Discreet, delicate sconces of burnished gold brighten a stately seating area at the centre of the space, a suite of chairs and tea tables arranged comfortably in a cosy circle. An intricate parquet of deep mahogany and honey-hued cedar scribes a striking geometric mosaic across the entire floor: eight narrow rays of diamond-shaped lattice reach from the central seating area to the columns along the outer walls, the space between them arrayed with rigid chevrons. Set in creamy, golden teak at the centre of the sunburst is the profile of a regal aerial, her wings held aloft above her noble head, enwreathed by a ring of stylised flames carved into the flesh of the hardwood and polished to a lustrous sheen. A sinuous, teak-framed divan couch stands here invitingly, glittering beryl flourishes undulating across the opulent satin. There are 2 exquisite teak and satin arm chairs here. An exquisite tea table rests low to the ground, its exotic teak frame in delightful contrast with glittering shards of beryl. Framed in stately cedar, a massive landscape of the Beacon of Harmony adorns the wall. In the shape of an open palm, a metallic sigil lies here. 

  
  

  Approaching the seating area on the dais, Daraius says, "You may have found yourself here once or twice if you spend any time in the company of Shevats."

  
  

  Trahey's expression fills with wonder, and he reaches out to brush his fingers against a panel, unconsciously stooping to reach a spot lower down. He follows you.

  
  

  Trahey sits himself down on an exquisite teak and satin arm chair and makes himself comfortable.

  
  

  Daraius sits himself down on an exquisite teak and satin arm chair and makes himself comfortable.

  
  

  Trahey brushes some stray feathers back over his shoulder and settles in. "Well. About this not-quite self-ostracising business..."

  
  

  Carefully, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "I suppose Da - he hasn't spoken of the circumstances where we reached... our agreement?"

  
  

  The swirling motes of Daraius's aura array themselves in such a way that suggests his entire attention focused on Trahey's words. "In no certain terms, no. Nelras is notoriously vague when he speaks with me," he admits. "He informed me only that he believes you are 'truly one of us,' meaning that you may share a bond of blood."

  
  

  Daraius adds, "A notion I disabused him of believing had any significance to my conception of family."

  
  

  Daraius swivels his ears towards Trahey, listening with rapt attention.

  
  

  Trahey blinks a little bit faster. "Well - yes, that sounds like him," he says. His voice has gone quieter in this parlour, subtly tense but soft all the same. "I... well. Forgive me if I'm not as collected as I should be. After all, matters close to the heart ought to be delivered all the more calmly, no? Best dispel misunderstandings with that." He takes a breath, and continues anyway. "I feel like I ought to fish out some definitive proof for us both. Prove myself somehow. I remember things. Little snippets of my past, but rarely very detailed or clear. It's... well, frankly it's rather frustrating."

  
  

  Half to himself, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard murmurs, "What point is it when only one person remembers? Agreement is everything in this world."

  
  

  Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "That... was what I meant when I said it was me that was doubting me. This need to prove myself."

  
  

  Daraius gives Trahey a solemn nod, something in his stance or expression betraying an earnest empathy with Trahey's plight, but he remains conspicuously quiet on the matter.

  
  

  Experimentally, Daraius says, "You mean to prove your legitimacy as Shevat-born by finding common memories you shared with members of my family before passing through the Portal?"

  
  

  Daraius says, "Rather than simply demonstrating your legitimacy by serving the Collective and adhering to the family's aims and expectations?"

  
  

  Daraius brightens with benevolent curiosity, his dispassionate gaze assessing every aspect of Trahey's body language, and his ears trained on every word.

  
  

  "Come to think of it, there's no 'not-quite-me at all," Trahey amends. "That was me projecting on... well." He lowers his gaze, offering a rueful sort of grin to lighten things - he is quick to look Daraius in the eyes again after the question. "I can't help it," he says, and a little more of his emotions spill from him. "I need to believe it's real. I've... hurt my parents. Leaving like I did. I have to know. Have to make amends." He stops himself from further tripping over his words here.

  
  

  Softly, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "I, of course, will do all I can for the Collective. It accepted me, after I ran to the Portal and forgot all about... before and had no place to go."

  
  

  Trailing off, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "But for me, there'll always be a hole where my memories have been, and until I do find them..."

  
  

  Daraius lifts one paw from his armrest in a benign forestalling gesture, absolving Trahey from having to further explain. "I understand," he states simply.

  
  

  Trahey blinks at Daraius in response. He is quiet for a time, what little of his ears one can see behind his feathers reddening.

  
  

  His tone touched by an indecipherable growl, Daraius says, "I knew the draw of Portal-claimed memories in my youth as well. I was also not dissuaded from trying to recover them, despite the discomfort it caused those around me."

  
  

  Suddenly childlike, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard whispers, "Dis...comfort?"

  
  

  The fluid swirling of motes about Daraius's form slows perceptibly to a clockwork crawl as he offers a soft growl of acknowledgement. "My quest to recover my loss took me out of my own time, and away from the Collective itself," he says gravely. "I'm quite sure it was not an easy thing for my siblings or my friends to let me go, but they did, and sent me with their faith."

  
  

  Returning slowly to a certain vibrancy, Daraius says, "And I returned a better man for the experience. So, similarly, I will not dissuade you. What you discover may indeed be crucial in shaping the citizen and Shevat you become."

  
  

  "For the greater good?" Trahey quietly asks, a little bit of lightness returning to his tone. His eyes were wide as he took in all Daraius said, and wide they remain, taking in the motes' fluctuating swirl as well.

  
  

  Acknowledging Trahey's point to be true, Daraius nods his head gravely at him.

  
  

  Almost shyly, Trahey asks, "Were you able to discover interesting things on your journey back then, sir?"

  
  

  Daraius issues a soft huff of a growl, leaning back into his chair as he considers the question.

  
  

  In placid tones of long-since-reconciled exasperation, Daraius says, "I learned that aeonics -- for me, at least -- is not a particularly effective mnemic therapy. That surrounding myself with sounds and locales familiar from my pre-Portal memories did not awaken a flood of buried memories."

  
  

  Very much to himself, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard murmurs, "Oh, I hadn't thought of that."

  
  

  Daraius says, "But I also came to appreciate the necessity for my monastic lifestyle, and a new appreciation for the structure and order offered by Hallifaxian society and Shevat expectations."

  
  

  A warm growl rumbling in his chest, Daraius says, "I explained the capacity for monstrosity that all loboshigaru carry, yes? When we spoke of the lotus?"

  
  

  "At Tosha Monasteries, yes," Trahey answers, a slow but bright smile returning to his face. "I couldn't forget that, sir."

  
  

  Daraius dips his muzzle in acknowledgement, clearly pleased by the comment as evinced by his aura's steady flare. "My time with the Tahtetso, and with the Toshan monks, and among those I love and who love me here in Hallifax--" He pauses abruptly, uncharacteristically overcome with sentiment for the briefest moment before continuing, "All were essential to my coming to a sense of peace with myself. Essential to my proving myself, I suppose, if I were to use your term."

  
  

  Daraius says, "All this to say, I will support your efforts, even as I fully accept your legitimacy as a Shevat already."

  
  

  Daraius folds his paws serenely in his lap, his face displaying something suggestive of a smile as he nods to Trahey.

  
  

  Something had stirred in Trahey's eyes at Daraius's shift in attitude, but he hadn't given any sort of voice to it until after the older man's declaration. Now he leans forward in his seat a little, his smile only growing warmer. "Thank you, sir," he says quietly. "That means a great deal. Peace. And it means much that you found it, too. You always look it," he adds. Some unseen movement beneath his coat suddenly chases a bit of his smile away.

  
  

  Under his breath, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "Damn wings! No, not damn them. Can't have that."

  
  

  Offering a grin instead, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "You know, sir, I only started using these again - feeling them again - after this family business kicked off?"

  
  

  Long, thick feathers of a rich brown sheen freely cascade down Trahey's back, reaching almost to his waist like a protective cloak. He stands at a little over seven feet, the apparent absence of wings not changing the fact that he is a feathered trill. His eyes are a sunlit, smoky grey, his cheeks ruddy, and his bushy eyebrows are often raised with mischievous curiosity. The youth is lithely built and slightly tanned from frequent hours in the sun, but the slight flecks of ink on his fingers as well as the unexpectedly intense gleam in his eyes suggest other facets to his character.

  He is wearing:

  a pale great coat of the Sentinels over bronze-tinted scalemail

  a Sentinel Company watch gleaming silver upon his left wrist

  a broad iron ring

  armoured boots of dark leather

  a nebulous pauldron of trailing mist, capricious tendrils spilling from his right shoulder

  a desaturated stole of rough patchwork, its embrace both softening and sobering his countenance

  paned, loose-fitting pants of blue and pale grey tucked neatly into his boots

  a beret hat of soft white wool as a jaunty, rather than jarring, addition.

  
  

  Daraius sits up a little straighter, his eyes flickering in surprise. Delicately, his tone carefully neutral, he asks, "You.. have wings?"

  
  

  Trahey lifts a hand to scratch at his headfeathers. "I do," he says, equally carefully. "I... think I hurt them. Hurt them young. My parents sang the Loralaria to me often enough for me to only feel how bad it was, after the Portal."

  
  

  Exhaling softly, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "I've been to see a healer about this, she said... no damage is permanent there, but I'd need some preparations. Some sort of physiotherapy."

  
  

  A low wary growl rumbles in Daraius's chest as he considers Trahey's words. "You'll forgive my lack of perceptiveness," he says, uncertain. "In all our time together I had mistaken you for a unusual sort of human, rather than an unusual sort of trill..."

  
  

  "I think I'd get that a lot," Trahey says, leaning back and spreading his hands upon the armrests. "Probably did. And it didn't matter much to me, not until recently," he says. "I didn't like to leave my wings out for... other people to see. They aren't the magnificent things other trills have, not now. Not like... *his*."

  
  

  Bluntly, Daraius asks, "Whose?"

  
  

  Both his ears and his cheeks flashing red now, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "M... my father's."

  
  

  A subtle sparkle manifests in Daraius's eyes as he nods knowingly at Trahey's reaction. "I am no stranger to admiration for a certain trill's plumage," he muses.

  
  

  A flurry of silver sweeps among the golden motes of Daraius's arms as a spray of starlit feathers takes flight.

  
  

  With a quirk of his head, Daraius says, "But you say a healer can restore you? That is promising."

  
  

  Trahey's eyes follow the illusory images, delight transforming his face into a child's once more. Some of that happiness carries over in his answer. "Yes! Damaged nerves, but with proper preparations even that can be healed, she says."

  
  

  Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "Lady Aiya Ehc'zi, I wonder if you know her, sir. She *is* associated with Divine, though, you may not have spoken yet?"

  
  

  The motes at the tips of Daraius's ears sparkle as the name triggers a flash of recognition. "Miss Aiya, yes," he says, nodding. "We crossed paths at the Matrix while she was visiting a colleague to discuss some aetheric science beyond my understanding."

  
  

  Sitting up, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard asks, "A fine specimen of Hallifaxian researchers, isn't she?"

  
  

  With a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a growl, Daraius says, "It is hard to say. I suppose she does good work by embodying Hallifaxian values abroad, though perhaps her talents might be put to better use in the city proper."

  
  

  Daraius says, "We did not discuss her work in any detail. It seems she was rather taken by being in my very presence." He shakes his head, still rumbling with an amused growl, continuing, "For reasons I can't begin to understand."

  
  

  "I think I can guess, sir," Trahey comments, a sunny twinkle coming into his eyes.

  
  

  Daraius says, "She is not unfamiliar with other Shevats, and I am apparently spoken of fairly highly by them." Turning up one paw in a benign kind of shrug, "This reputation travels as far as Czixi's realm, I suppose."

  
  

  Daraius says, "In any event, I should hope you are in good hands with such a doctor. I cannot vouch for her competence in healing, but she did at least seem quite conscientious."

  
  

  Daraius says to Trahey, "What 'preparations' did she prescribe? I confess I know nothing of auric healing, myself."

  
  

  "Oh, erm, she mentioned getting to the point where I can stretch my wings out, recover range of movement. I do exercise when I wake," Trahey says, thoughtfully. "But I think she's thinking along the lines of... well, anything to help soothe hurt muscles and limbs."

  
  

  As an afterthought, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "While helping my wings get back on their proverbial feet."

  
  

  Daraius takes a moment to process the image, but ultimately appears nonplussed. Returning his attention to Trahey, he asks, "Do you feel you've made progress so far?"

  
  

  "They still hurt," Trahey admits. "But that was to be expected. I am able to stretch them farther than I could when I first started out. Some months ago."

  
  

  Daraius glances askance of Trahey, ruminating privately for a moment as his gaze traces the contours of the parlour. "I gather this is important to you," he says at long last as his eyes come to rest again on Trahey. "I am no healer, but through my studies of the Toshan doctrines, and my psychometabolic control of my own body, and the bolstering energies I can manifest through my training in zarakido and kata..."

  
  

  With a gentle growl, Daraius says, "I believe I could be of service. Allow me some time and I will see what I can do to help you on your way."

  
  

  "I think it best not to keel over in the parlour, lovely as it is," Trahey grins, "but I've time enough to show you the damage, at least. We could plan more next time," he says, shrugging off his coat after a moment of hesitation.

  
  

  Trahey removes a pale great coat of the Sentinels.

  
  

  Daraius observes Trahey's movements attentively and without comment.

  
  

  Trahey gets to his feet and turns around to put his sad, atrophied wings on display. They are crooked, and apparently naturally on the smaller side.

  
  

  Long, thick feathers of a rich brown sheen freely cascade down Trahey's back, reaching almost to his waist like a protective cloak. He stands at a little over seven feet, the crooked, frail-looking wings attesting that he is a feathered trill. His eyes are a sunlit, smoky grey, his cheeks ruddy, and his bushy eyebrows are often raised with mischievous curiosity. The youth is lithely built and slightly tanned from frequent hours in the sun, but the slight flecks of ink on his fingers as well as the unexpectedly intense gleam in his eyes suggest other facets to his character.

  
  

  Trahey lifts his right wing with a bit more ease than his left. "She told me where they were damaged, what did she say again..."

  
  

  Daraius listens carefully as he assesses Trahey's malformed wings.

  
  

  "Right wing," Trahey says, lifting it. "The upper bone where there are two bones - you'll know once you touch - called the radius, and the one close by, only closer to the outer edges, the metacarpus. That one bears the most weight. Some nerve damage along the area... oh, and my lower back and legs are also pretty strained trying to divert weight from my wings. As for the left..."

  
  

  Daraius continues to listen, unmoved from his seat and paws folded placidly in his lap.

  
  

  Wincing as he lifts it, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "Near my shoulder blades, underside of the humerus bone. Bad damage, sir, but not sure how much."

  
  

  "I see," Daraius states. "To avoid the risk of harming you further, I will need to brush up on my trill physiology. I trust my ability to provide you techniques to ease your tension," he continues, glancing for a moment over his own body, "but if the wings are to require any physical manipulation, I will have to assume a more, ah, tangible form, myself."

  
  

  Daraius asks Trahey, "I don't suppose you have ever received a tattoo?"

  
  

  Trahey blinks. "Erm, no, sir?"

  
  

  With a nod, Daraius says, "Another loboshigaru technique I'm familiar with. They are images infused with a monk's ka energy." He holds up one insubstantial arm and allows his own to manifest in sequence -- the starlit silver feathers of his arm flow into a chain of interlocking black and white lotus blossoms around his wrist. The tints swirl into silver script upon his palm as he rotates his paw, and then finally form four crisp letters on each of his knuckles before dissipating altogether. He continues, "Merely theorizing here, but I imagine some form of healing or relaxing energy could be imbued into a tattoo where you are most in need."

  
  

  Daraius says, "I know the monks of Tosha Monastery undergo full-body tattooing in one session, as something of a rite of passage. It is meant to help them achieve stillness even in pain."

  
  

  Benignly, Daraius says, "But I have no wish to cause you further pain. Simply something to consider if other efforts are not entirely effective."

  
  

  "Y-yes. That is... something to think about, and think about carefully," Trahey mutters. "That I'll do, sir, after some sleep, and I do thank you for one solution. I need to learn to fly someday - I will." With a resolution not quite dampened by fatigue, he steps forward and offers his hand for a shake. "It really was good to speak with you - Four... times great-grandfather."

  
  

  Trahey gets up off an exquisite teak and satin arm chair.

  
  

  Eyes sparkling with amusement, Daraius says, "Likewise, dear Trahey. My appellations grow more cumbersome with every new generation."

  
  

  Daraius says, "As does the greatness of my grandpups. I'll let you take your rest."

  
  

  Daraius notices Trahey's eyelids are beginning to droop.

  
  

  Daraius says to Trahey, "Fates willing, I'll be able to help you achieve more tangible progress in your pursuit when we next cross paths. In the meantime, may you be well, and your efforts fruitful."

  
  

  Expression open and warm, Trahey says, "I hope we'll get to talk again, sir. I enjoyed this." With an odd familiarity he moves to the landscape, offering a solemn salute before reaching out.

  
  

  With a wistful look on his face, Trahey touches a landscape of the Beacon of Harmony.

  Brushing his fingertips against a landscape of the Beacon of Harmony, a ripple of swirling paint spirals outward from Trahey's hand. The towers and bridges of the painted city rearrange until a corridor of swirling mist stands in its place. As Trahey steps into the painting, the blocks of the corridor rearrange themselves behind him until the Beacon of Harmony once again fills the frame.

  I used to make cakes.
  
  Estarra the Eternal says, "Give Shevat the floor please."

  3
• Daraius Shevat The juror's taco spot

  October 2019

  3 Urlachmar, 536 C.E.

  
  

  
  

  Daraius's considers a tawny gryphon with grey-feathered wings for a long moment before his gaze drifts briefly to Nelras, then to Alexandria.

  
  

  Alexandria flashes Daraius a joyous smile.

  
  

  Daraius asks, "May I ask an unusual question?"

  
  

  Cade nods his head emphatically.

  
  

  Alexandria tilts her head and listens intently to Daraius.

  
  

  Quintessence Nelras Shevat, Her Silvern Legate says to Daraius. "You may. Is it a question that you can ask here?"

  
  

  Daraius says, "It is, and it is for the representatives of the trill race here."

  
  

  A slight smile crosses Nelras's lips as he says, "Then of course, please do feel free to ask."

  
  

  Daraius ruminates on an uncertain growl, considering his words carefully. At long last, he says, delicately, "To what extent do you believe your wings share, ah... structural similarities to those of other flighted beings?"

  
  

  Indicating a tawny gryphon with grey-feathered wings, Daraius says, "For instance, in observing Shantu, I would guess his wings are much the same as yours, both in form and function. Does that seem a plausible assumption?"

  
  

  Alexandria flexes her wings, stretching them out to catch a stray breeze before saying thoughtfully, "I've really never given it much thought. But I would assume so."

  
  

  Nelras considers this for a time before answering. "It does seem plausible," he agrees with a slight nod of his head. "Certainly the feathers are arranged in a similar fashion, and I believe that the structure of the bones would also be similar." He lowers his voice slightly, adding, "It is not something I have thought about too much, until recently."

  
  

  "Of course, I understand," Daraius says, dipping his muzzle humbly. "Even at my most corporeal, I never considered with any rigor the skeletal similarities between my features and those of the wolves and dingoes."

  
  

  Brightening subtly, Daraius says, "As I said, an unusual question. Thank you for offering your thoughts."

  
  

  Quintessence Nelras Shevat, Her Silvern Legate says to Daraius. "I suspect that any differences would not be in the wings themselves, but in how they are connected to other parts of the body. I would consider looking at how the weight of a Trill is supported in flight, it might indicate subtle differences in the stresses the wings must undergo."

  
  

  The lonely cry of a hunting bird echoes, calling out from somewhere below.

  
  

  Gently patting a tawny gryphon with grey-feathered wings's head, leaving errant golden motes among his ear plumes, Daraius emits a soft growl of acknowledgement at Nelras's answer.

  
  

  With a nod, Daraius says, "Something to consider."

  
  

  Quintessence Nelras Shevat, Her Silvern Legate says, "I am afraid that I must ask an unusual question of my own now, if you would not object?"

  
  

  Daraius swivels his ears towards Nelras, listening with rapt attention.

  
  

  Daraius says, "It is only fair."

  
  

  Nelras glances around quickly before quietly asking you, "Might I ask if there is a reason for your sudden interest in wings?" He pauses for a moment, considering your expression, then says, "I am only asking because, well, I have recently become more interested in such matters also."

  
  

  Quintessence Nelras Shevat, Her Silvern Legate says to Daraius. "I wished to know if our interests shared any common cause, you see. I might be quite glad to learn that they did, but I would not wish to assume."

  
  

  A subtle sparkle manifesting in his eyes, Daraius says to Nelras, "I'm fairly confident they do. Young Trahey spoke to me of his concerns, and I pledged my assistance."

  
  

  A tawny gryphon with grey-feathered wings talons the ground with a fierce shriek, his wings spreading gloriously behind him.

  
  

  Nelras smiles, although there is a hint of sadness to his voice as he says, "Thank you."

  
  

  Daraius assesses Nelras's expression with unblinking scrutiny, as if cataloging every nuance of his smile and tone.

  
  

  Turning up his paws in a benign kind of shrug, Daraius says, "I'm well versed in meditative techniques, and have vast control over my own psychometabolic systems. Likewise, my study of zarakido and kata give me some influence over the energies that flow in myself and others."

  
  

  A flurry of loose feathers blows by in a gust of wind, whirling over the edge of the platforms into open air.

  
  

  Pointedly, his tone laced with a gentle growl, Daraius says to Nelras, "But I cannot fly."

  
  

  Nelras's concern is clear from his demeanor, yet he sounds genuine as he says, "I am glad for all of your studies and your knowledge. If there is any assistance which I might offer, you need only ask."

  
  

  A tawny gryphon with grey-feathered wings talons the ground with a fierce shriek, his wings spreading gloriously behind him.

  
  

  Daraius rests a tender paw on a tawny gryphon with grey-feathered wings's beak to quiet him, saying to Nelras, "I shall, by all means. I imagine you'll hear of our progress one way or another, and I also have no doubt that further instruction will be needed after I've done what I can."

  
  

  Nelras nods his head at Daraius.

  
  

  A sparkle manifesting in his eyes, Daraius says to a tawny gryphon with grey-feathered wings, "You get the slightest bit of public attention and you can't help but show off. Go wait for me at home."

  
  

  A tawny gryphon with grey-feathered wings bobs his head several times just before trotting off.

  
  

  Daraius says, "If you'll pardon me, I'm afraid I have to take my leave for a time."

  
  

  Quintessence Nelras Shevat, Her Silvern Legate says to Daraius. "Of course."

  
  

  Daraius clasps his paws and offers a polite bow, saying, "May you be well, and your efforts fruitful."

  I used to make cakes.
  
  Estarra the Eternal says, "Give Shevat the floor please."

  2
• Daraius Shevat The juror's taco spot

  October 2019

  =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  From: Daraius Shevat

  To  : Aiya Ehc'zi

  Subj: Trahey

  Date: 18 Estar, 538 C.E.

  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  
  

  Comrade Doctor Ehc'zi,

  
  

  I hope you have been well since your last visit to the city. I'm given to understand that you have served, more or less, as a primary care physician for my great-great-great-great grandpup Trahey, and I wished to inform you that he has come to me for assistance in the matter of his atrophied wings. I am no doctor myself, but I have several centuries of experience in matters of meditation, psychometabolic self-monitoring, and the manipulation of the various energies that flow through and around the mortal body. As such, I have shared with Trahey some of my techniques for reaching a state of stillness and relaxation, in hopes that with time he will be able to release some of the tension he carries. He has been secluded for quite some time now, presumably mastering these techniques. Fates willing, this will make his wings more receptive to the physical manipulations I plan to perform to help him achieve better mobility, which will in turn allow you to conduct the final necessary ministrations.

  
  

  Having said all that, I would appreciate any advice you can give with respect to the coming stage of his treatment. I have made a close study of my endlessly patient gryphon's wings, and observed as carefully as I can the ways in which my trill comrades carry and move their own, but I am no scholar of trill physiology. Were dear Trahey a loboshigaru, perhaps, with a malformed tail or a weakness in the critical wagging muscles, I could shepherd him to health and vigor with confidence. As it is, however, I fear I could cause more harm than good. I have no illusions that you might transform me overnight into a renowned physiotherapist, but should you have even the broadest suggestions for me to proffer Trahey some benefit without injuring him further, I would happily accept them by any means you can provide them -- either by mail or perhaps over tea.

  
  

  Thank you for your consideration, and for your care of my dear family member. May you be well, and your efforts fruitful.

  
  

  Earnestly yours,

  ~ Daraius Shevat

  
  

  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

  =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

  
  

  
  

  My dear and most esteemed Lord Shevat,

   

  I was most pleased to receive your letter, the difficult circumstances

  that precipitated its sending notwithstanding. You are indeed correct

  that I have offered some medical advice to Procurator Trahey, and that I

  have recommended that he locate a physiotherapist that can offer some

  strength to his pectoralis and supracoracoideus muscles.

   

  Though my specialism is in aetheric physics, I spent a great deal of

  time training in the Laboratory of the Natural Sciences and Higher

  Energies whilst studying within the Institute as a complementary

  subject. During that time I made some extensive study of trill and

  lucidian anatomical structure. However, I regret that my studies were

  primarily theoretical in nature, hence the need to call in a more

  experienced professional.

   

  My assessment of Trahey's injuries is that, fortunately, he does not

  have any skeletal damage or malformations. The range of movement that he

  possesses, and in many instances lacks, indicates strongly that the

  issue is a muscular one. In addition, he has suffered some damage to the

  nervous system in the region as a result of the past trauma.

   

  As a trained healer, it is trivial for me to manifest a regenerative

  aura and tackle this nervous damage. However, with his wings in their

  present state, this would indeed cause extreme injury and a potential

  crippling of his wings.

   

  You note that he carries a great deal of tension in his body, and this

  is what concerns me. Due to the asymmetrical nature of his muscular

  rigidity, Trahey's shoulders and spine are held out of place by the very

  muscles intended to support them. The hunch that he carries is not due

  to a malformation; it is wholly a manifestation of that tension, one

  exacerbated by the partial atrophy of those few muscles that are not

  holding themselves rigid.

   

  Thus, in essence, what must be done is to loosen this entire region and

  return his posture to its intended form. He suffers a great degree of

  referred pain in his lower back and legs, as you may have observed or

  been informed. It would be tempting to tackle this first, but I would in

  fact recommend the opposite. The root of the problem is a far more

  important target.

   

  However, this must be done carefully. I would encourage you to approach

  his stronger side - that being his left - and encouraging it into the

  correct position first. This will serve a dual purpose: it will enable

  you to have some practice with trill physiology, and will help combat

  some of that referred pain. After that I would approach his weaker side,

  and only after that the referred regions of pain.

   

  Your goal is to relax those muscles that are held in cramped positions.

  It is very clear which muscles are the problem, as you will feel that

  they are unresponsive to moderate pressure - if you will pardon me an

  abysmal and mildly inappropriate analogy, it is not dissimilar to

  touching a steak to test how well it is cooked. I suspect that once a

  few points have been gently and slowly encouraged to relax, there will

  be a cascade reaction as his body stabilises and balances out.

   

  I hope that this offers you some greater insight upon my assessment and

  the demands placed upon you as his physiotherapist. I appreciate that

  this is a great deal of information, however, so I would be pleased to

  additionally accept your invitation to tea, that you might have the

  opportunity to ask any questions you may have.

   

  With kind regards, and wishes for fair winds,

   

  Aiya Ehc'zi

  the Unfettered Aspirant

  Doctor of Aethereal Astrophysics

  I used to make cakes.
  
  Estarra the Eternal says, "Give Shevat the floor please."

  2
• Daraius Shevat The juror's taco spot

  October 2019 edited October 2019

  1 Shanthin, 536

  
  

  Trahey tells Daraius, "It seems I'm unable to find proper help for my wings anywhere. Somebody will turn up, I suppose. But I can't deny it can be frustrating sometimes."

  
  

  Daraius tells Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard, "Mm, I did promise to assist in whatever capacity I could. I don't suppose you've made any breakthroughs since we last spoke on the matter?"

  
  

  Trahey tells Daraius, "No. A combination of sleep and conflicting schedules."

  
  

  Daraius tells Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard, "If you have the time, I will see what expertise I can bring to bear."

  
  

  Trahey tells Daraius, "Aah, it's wrong of me to complain. Plenty of people who don't even have wings, and I've lived without using them my whole life anyhow. I won't be holding you to that promise, Grandfather. Not if you have other work to see to."

  
  

  Daraius tells Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard, "You wouldn't make a liar of me, I trust."

  
  

  Trahey tells Daraius, "Not a chance. Just checking that I wasn't interrupting anything."

  
  

  Daraius dips his bewhiskered canid muzzle to Trahey in greeting, his tail swaying placidly behind him.

  
  

  Trahey: Long, thick feathers of a rich brown sheen freely cascade down Trahey's back, reaching almost to his waist like a protective cloak. He stands at a little over seven feet, the apparent absence of wings not changing the fact that he is a feathered trill. His eyes are a sunlit, smoky grey, his cheeks ruddy, and his bushy eyebrows are often raised with mischievous curiosity. The youth is lithely built and slightly tanned from frequent hours in the sun, but the slight flecks of ink on his fingers as well as the unexpectedly intense gleam in his eyes suggest other facets to his character.

  
  

  A lingering sense of being disgruntled is visible on Trahey's face as he enters, but the look melts away to leave only relief in its place.

  
  

  Trahey bows respectfully to Daraius.

  
  

  Daraius says, "I hope you've been well, dear Trahey."

  
  

  Daraius places one paw firmly on the beak of a tawny gryphon with grey-feathered wings and makes meaningful eye contact with the regal beast before sending him off.

  
  

  Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "I've had the generators to focus on, not just my wings, which is a good thing indeed. I hope *you've* been well too, Grandfather?"

  
  

  "All in all, yes," Daraius replies, swiveling his ears and gaze towards Trahey. "Despite a rather fraught discussion or two, I have been."

  
  

  Tilting his head, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "Miss Aruokei again?"

  
  

  A subtle sparkle in his eyes, Daraius says, "That was one of them, yes. Before that, even, there was a public spectacle by your goddess, followed by a fairly intense dialogue among my thrice-great grandpups and myself."

  
  

  Daraius places a paw over his heart, an amused growl touching his voice as he states, "An emotional couple of months, I daresay."

  
  

  Trahey pauses a little, trying to decipher who they might be. "Minister... Alexandria and the Overseer?"

  
  

  Daraius says, "Alexandria and Nelras, to be precise."

  
  

  Trahey pauses.

  
  

  Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "Yes...?"

  
  

  Canting his head quizzically, Daraius says, "Yes?"

  
  

  Something he himself likely does not recognise shadowing his face, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "What... sort of emotional..."

  
  

  Humbly, Daraius says, "It is hardly my place to disclose the contents of another's heart. Lest you worry, I can say, at least, that there is no disharmony between us -- either between me and my grandpups or between me and Czixi."

  
  

  The older man's words have evidently not soothed Trahey. "I see," he answers, gaze growing distant and worryingly cold - but not at Daraius.

  
  

  Flatly, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "We are growing distracted. Please, do tell what ideas you had in mind."

  
  

  Daraius's ears stand attentively atop his head at Trahey's shift in demeanor, but his expression remains otherwise placid. "Mm, of course. As I understand what you told me," he begins, his tone touched with a warm growl, "You suffer from severely limited mobility in the wings, and it is evident in most of your movement that you carry a great deal of tension."

  
  

  Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "Unfortunately so."

  
  

  Dipping his muzzle humbly, Daraius says to Trahey, "I am no physician, but I can share something of what I've learned in centuries of meditation and physical conditioning."

  
  

  Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "I'm listening, sir."

  
  

  Daraius says to Trahey, "Come with me, if you would. I think it is a topic better discussed indoors."

  
  

  Trahey nods his head at Daraius.

  
  

  <to Erudio, which is overgrown with wonderclock flowers>

  
  

  Stepping over flowers, Daraius says, "Don't mind the flowers, please. I'm afraid I've let them get out of hand."

  
  

  A tranquil meditation chamber. 

  A sense of stillness and peace pervades this small chamber, the walls of which are hewn from cool, smooth grey stones. Underfoot, two large mats of tightly woven rice straw cover the entire floor, their dark cloth edges dividing the room into equal rectangular halves. Rich silk banners of amber and beryl hues stream from the vaulted ceiling and hang graciously along the walls, muffling the sounds of footsteps and conversation, and lending a sense of cozy privacy to the room. Set in the northern wall, a quiet fountain rests within a small alcove. Consisting of no more than a wide shallow bowl perpetually filled from beneath by a hidden spring, the fountain offers quiet reflection in its mirror-like surface. A single golden lotus blossom floats upon the placid water. Plush seating pillows the same colours as the wall hangings lie about the centre of the chamber and near the fountain, but the floor is otherwise uncluttered. Indeed, no particle of dust, strand of fur, or any other debris disrupts the consummate cleanliness of this space. Its atmosphere is one of tranquility, comfort, and order. A stately mahogany throne stands here, humbled by its ornate tripartite backrest. An unassuming cedar tea table rests here, a humble exemplar of balance and utility. Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard is here, shrouded. He wields a white platinum klangaxe of aurora borealis crystal with both hands.

  
  

  His lips turning up in a semblance of a smile, Daraius says, "Could I ask that you place your boots by the door, please?"

  
  

  Trahey kneels to undo the fastenings, and rolls up the hems of his trousers while stepping out of his boots.

  
  

  Trahey removes armoured boots of dark leather.

  
  

  Trahey gently places the roses he accidentally picked up upon the mat, looking into the swirling depths of the paler flower for a moment.

  
  

  Ignoring a triptych mahogany throne depicting Tosha's ascension in favor of a humble seating cushion, Daraius settles onto the floor and adopts a relaxed cross-legged position and gestures to another nearby cushion with an upturned paw.

  
  

  As Trahey finds his place, Daraius asks, "How aware are you of your own body, Trahey, apart from being continually displeased with it?"

  
  

  An errant draft brings with it the faint redolence of cedar and parchment.

  
  

  Trahey silently takes his place on the proffered seat. His eyebrows rise at the question. "Aware... in what way, sir?"

  
  

  Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard asks, "Where I'm developed and where I'm not? What physical activities I'm good at, that sort of thing?"

  
  

  "Not quite," Daraius replies, folding his paws in his lap. "The monks practice a certain intense awareness of every sensation and system of the body, from breathing, to position and posture, pain and discomfort, digestion..."

  
  

  Daraius says to Trahey, "Do you attend to physical sensations consciously, or do they only rise to the level of consciousness in moments of pain or pleasure?"

  
  

  Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "I don't pay too much attention unless I don't have anything to occupy my attention, or if I'm actually uncomfortable... and vice versa."

  
  

  "Mm," Daraius hums in acknowledgement, though as ever the sound is really just soft growl. His tail sweeps the floor behind him in a tranquil rhythm as he continues, "That is perfectly natural. Being neither a psychometabolist or practitioner of kata, you have no real need to attune yourself to the energies and processes of your body. Nor do I suspect you'd have the capacity to attempt any great feats of self-repair by commandeering your own internal systems."

  
  

  Daraius says, "But sometimes the simplest lessons can be illuminating, so I'll share one of the first Toshan techniques under the doctrine of Form." [I meant to say Clarity. >.<]

  
  

  Trahey's eyes snap open, the cloud hanging over him dispelled for the moment. "If I could manipulate my own body to fix itself, that'd be amazing. I'm ready."

  
  

  A sound somewhere between a chuckle and a growl rumbles briefly in Daraius's chest. "Glad to hear it," he says with a benign nod. "It begins, as so many worthwhile things do, with Air. Allow yourself a centering breath, taking in whatever is comfortable, and keep it with you, attending to the sensation of breathing."

  
  

  A pervasive sense of peace accompanies the far-off warbling croon of a lone aerial.

  
  

  Daraius demonstrates the simple miracle of breathing, inhaling deeply and calmly, holding for a moment, and then exhaling a contented growl.

  
  

  Now with some uncertainty, Trahey follows suit. The air is quiet, no barriers to hold back thought and worry and emotion - the trill's bushy brows knit sharply, and he stammers his intent to try again.

  
  

  "Alright, alright." Trahey closes his eyes, the faint line not yet gone from his brow. He inhales far more slowly, and wills himself to let go.

  
  

  A subtle warmth emanates from Daraius's aura as he repeats the cycle, this time saying softly as he exhales, "Focus only on the breathing, but don't punish yourself if your mind wanders."

  
  

  Daraius says, "If you meet an intrusive thought, acknowledge it and let it pass."

  
  

  Trahey sends a helpless look Daraius's way, an odd tremor in the grey of his eyes. He nods, swallows, and tries again. His eyes close, and he paces his breathing - trusting in order to wash all things away.

  
  

  With a nod, Daraius says, "Some monks recite the doctrines to guide the pace of their breathing." Intoning in a regular rhythm, modeling the inhale with a gesture of his paw, he continues, "Form, Heart, Spirit, Clarity."

  
  

  Daraius says, "For others, a simple count will do. What matters is the rhythm, and the focus."

  
  

  Observing carefully whether Trahey's technique improves, Daraius repeats the gestures, "Inhale - Form, Heart, Spirit, Clarity. Hold - one, two, three, four. Exhale - Order, Balance, Precision, Stability. Hold - one, two, three, four."

  
  

  Trahey is quiet for a while, focusing on the rise and fall of his own chest. Eventually, a soft chant falls from his lips. "Form, Heart, Spirit, Clarity."

  
  

  Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard murmurs, "Order, Balance, Precision, Stability."

  
  

  The muffled sound of footsteps and susurrus of fabric bespeak the ceaseless activity of the estate's dutiful and discreet staff.

  
  

  "Form, Heart, Spirit, Clarity." Trahey's eyes do not open. His voice is equally tight, not quite comfortable with the sound of his voice when not engaged in conversation with another. "Order, Balance, Precision, Clarity..." [He meant to say Stability. >.<]

  
  

  The sound of his tail happily swishing against the stone floor reaches Trahey's ears before the sound of Daraius's voice, laced with a contented growl. "Very good," he says. "That pattern of breathing alone, well practiced, can allow you to intercede upon your natural stress response and assert your will over your physiology."

  
  

  "Form," Trahey answers, adding a little nod as he goes on with the mantra.

  
  

  Daraius allows Trahey a moment of silence, his own placid breathing mirror and model to Trahey's. After a time, he says softly, "When you feel you have a grasp of the rhythm, we'll move on to the next technique, which builds on it."

  
  

  Daraius observes Trahey quietly and with unmitigated patience.

  
  

  Trahey is not free from occasional distracting thoughts, but whatever pauses that puncture his rhythm is smoothed out by the next round. He allows four cycles to pass before timidly opening his eyes and giving Daraius a nod, ready to try the next step.

  
  

  The tranquil resonance of singing bowls echoes in the distance.

  
  

  Daraius's own golden eyes brighten at seeing Trahey's response, and a number of shimmering pinpoints manifest about his aura. Resting his upturned paws on his knees and tilting his muzzle slightly upward towards the silk hangings above, he says, "With your inward focus, while maintaining the rhythm of breath and - if necessary - employing a mantra to divert and sublimate external thoughts from intruding, turn your attention to the sensations within your own body."

  
  

  "Depending on your need and experience," Daraius continues, "You might attend to the rhythm of your heart, or the churning of your stomach, or the growth of your very cells."

  
  

  Sparing Trahey a sidelong glance, his muzzle still slightly inclined, Daraius says, "For our purposes, look inward for the tension you carry in your spine and the muscles of your back."

  
  

  Trahey's chant begins again, tone rising a little in a desperate attempt to block out all thought. This is often a counterproductive measure, and after another sharp grimace the boy scrabbles to undo the front of his jacket. He claps his hands above clean white cotton, above his heart, seeking refuge in blood. His voice slowly settles, and his back straightens. He is careful here, tracing along his damaged muscles with thought rather than hands.

  
  

  As he observes Trahey's frantic gestures with detached curiosity, Daraius's breathing follows the uncannily steady rhythm of his earlier instructions, proceeding with mechanical, inexorable regularity.

  
  

  "At this stage," Daraius says in a voice hardly above a whisper, yet managing a certain authority, "You needn't try anything to relieve the tension. Simply find it, acknowledge it, validate it as you would a thought intruding on your mantra."

  
  

  Daraius adds, punctuating the instruction with a brief swish of his tail, "And let it pass."

  
  

  "This is no miracle cure," Daraius warns. "But in training yourself to find the pain in your body, recognize and accept its presence, and then allow it to subside from your attention again, you will prime yourself to heal it."

  
  

  Another grimace, but from pain of body, not of mind. A certain weight falls upon Trahey's next "Stability," and the silent inhalation that follows comes a breath late. His face, however, does not show the same frustration that had visited him before.

  
  

  Daraius says, "Do this as often as you need, attending to wherever the tension is hardest to access. As with the breathing, it is a cyclical process, and the more readily you can bring your attention to your body's discomfort, the more readily you will be able to let them go."

  
  

  Daraius falls silent again, observing Trahey's efforts with careful scrutiny.

  
  

  An errant draft brings with it the faint redolence of cedar and parchment.

  
  

  Trahey's chants are interrupted here and there with pauses, puzzled frowns, and sometimes near inaudible whimpers of pain, but he does not stop. A rustling sounds beneath his coat, and he briefly breaks concentration to pull it off and let his wings hang free.

  
  

  Trahey removes a full grain leather coat of midnight black.

  
  

  Trahey: Long, thick feathers of a rich brown sheen freely cascade down Trahey's back, reaching almost to his waist like a protective cloak. He stands at a little over seven feet, the crooked, frail-looking wings attesting that he is a feathered trill. His eyes are a sunlit, smoky grey, his cheeks ruddy, and his bushy eyebrows are often raised with mischievous curiosity. The youth is lithely built and slightly tanned from frequent hours in the sun, but the slight flecks of ink on his fingers as well as the unexpectedly intense gleam in his eyes suggest other facets to his character.

  
  

  Each feather stirs very feebly with Trahey's breathing, whatever tension that fills it as he seeks out the pain showing. Hesitantly, carefully, one wing stretches out and stays that way while Trahey's chant grows a little sharper, and when he relaxes it so does his voice grow soft again. He allows the same for his other wing.

  
  

  Daraius's eyes brighten and a warm growl rises in his chest at the movement of Trahey's wings. "You needn't push yourself too far, just yet, dear Trahey," he says, his aura aglow. "But I daresay this looks a little like progress."

  
  

  As Trahey continues chanting, Daraius gets quietly to his feet and steps behind him, crouching down to get a closer look at his wings.

  
  

  "Don't be alarmed," Daraius warns before placing a single padded fingertip between Trahey's shoulders. His touch is so light it is barely felt, his pawpad as smooth as though his hands in three centuries had never known coarseness. "This may ease the discomfort as you practice."

  
  

  Daraius stands still and focuses for a moment, a sense of calm overtaking him and a wave of energy flows out from him.

  
  

  The wave washes over Trahey and he feels his vitality swell with renewed strength.

  
  

  Despite his nonchalant words before, hopeful impatience gets the better of Trahey, and he stretches his wing a little too far. A yelp breaks his chanted "Order," and he gingerly lets that wing sag. It is a sad little appendage, resembling his father's in colour and sheen for the most part.

  
  

  Daraius emits a soft huff of a growl at Trahey's overextension, casting an appraising glance over his wings before resuming his place on the cushion across from Trahey.

  
  

  Trahey's expression clears after a while nonetheless, Daraius's ministrations having clearly taken effect. Eventually, after some cycles, he is able to stretch his wings out fully, though not for very long.

  
  

  With caring patience, Daraius says to Trahey, "Don't expect to fly out of my chamber, greatest grandpup. These techniques will take practice and dedication."

  
  

  A pervasive sense of peace accompanies the far-off warbling croon of a lone aerial.

  
  

  "I've a ways to go before that," Trahey murmurs. His smile is as wide as his voice is quiet. "I didn't think I'd manage, this. Keeping my wings all open. I'd been too used to not thinking about this at all, but now..."

  
  

  Daraius acknowledges the suggestion with a knowing nod. "When you shut out what is uncomfortable to confront, you allow it to strengthen. Turning your attention to the discomfort instead allows you to strengthen yourself".

  
  

  Daraius says, "Lest I encourage you to attempt more than you should at this stage, I think it best to call an end to this session." His tail flicks happily behind him as he continues, "Practice these techniques in a peaceful place, and try not to put too much of a physical strain on your muscles."

  
  

  Daraius says, "When you have reached a certain level of mastery at attending to the areas of tension, we can work on the next lesson under the doctrine of Form, physical conditioning."

  
  

  "That shutting out part... might have gotten in the way when I was last treated." Trahey takes a breath. "I will, I most definitely will. Thank you so much for this weave, Greatest-grandfather, and I will come ready for that next bit." He looks at Daraius a little shyly, opening more than his eyes. "You know... I was afraid. Of flying, as a child. I hated heights. When I got hurt, I remember... relief."

  
  

  Daraius swivels his ears towards Trahey, listening with rapt attention.

  
  

  "I didn't have to practice flying, not while I was hurt. Didn't have to think about disappointing anybody. My wings were... this weak from the start, and I never really... felt comfortable with them." Trahey exhales softly. "As long as I could call in sick, Mum and Dad wouldn't force me to go out and fly. I was the one that got tired of hiding, but then something happened, and another injury - worse, this time. My wings were small from the start, but that day got my wings actually crooked. And now there was no pretending... just very real pain, being less happy with my wings."

  
  

  "There was therapy. Mum sang." Trahey's face changes once more, a longing so deep one might be able to touch it overtaking him. "Dad must have, as well."

  
  

  The muffled sound of footsteps and susurrus of fabric bespeak the ceaseless activity of the estate's dutiful and discreet staff.

  
  

  Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard whispers, "And I... misdirected them, I think. Played down the pain left. I didn't want to see my wings again."

  
  

  Daraius's ears and whiskers droop pitifully, and some of the golden light leaves his eyes as Trahey speaks, but he remains attentive and gives an encouraging nod.

  
  

  "Asked them to care for my back, all the bunched other-muscles more. Didn't quite help my wings, but it enabled me to hide... and she spent more time with me. Singing the grazioso each night for me." Trahey's voice trembles. "I don't know how she never tired of it..."

  
  

  Exhaling the softest sighing growl, Daraius says, "I have no trouble imagining a parent's tireless dedication to his or her child."

  
  

  Trahey whispers, "There's so much more we must have done, so many memories for me to find. It's all I've left of her. Whatever happens..." He takes a breath, and beneath his softness something grows steely in his gaze. "Whatever happens, it's she that I'll miss. My mother. Nobody can replace her; nobody will."

  
  

  Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard whispers, "And I won't run. Whatever it is I fear, and what I think. That lesson I won't forget."

  
  

  Daraius offers only a humble nod at Trahey's resolution, though something remains unsaid in his hesitance to meet Trahey's steely gaze. "Indeed," he says instead. "Draw your attention to it, acknowledge it, validate it, and let it pass."

  
  

  Daraius says, "Do feel free to rest, Trahey. There are plenty of cushions."

  
  

  The fire slowly leaves Trahey at that, and he nods gratefully. "The practice was more tiring than I thought," he murmurs, before letting himself slide into sleep.

  
  

  A low, contented growl arises within Daraius's chest.

  
  

  Trahey leaps to his feet, the rest clearly not a peaceful one in terms of dreams. His eyes dart around wildly before finding you, and his face grows soft.

  
  

  Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "I... Oh. You stayed."

  
  

  Daraius raises one paw in greeting, silver words of benediction visible upon his padded palm. "Of course," he says. "It is my chamber after all."

  
  

  Trahey runs a hand through his headfeathers, pushing his beret up a little in the process. "This is the place you spend most of your time in, when you're at home?"

  
  

  "Mm," Daraius offers in confirmation. "Here or in the stockroom of the stationery shop, which is also comfortably appointed."

  
  

  Daraius says, "But outside of Tosha monastery, I've found no better place for introspection."

  
  

  Daraius says to Trahey, "Of course, you'll be granted a place of your own on the grounds of the estate, should you wish it."

  
  

  Daraius says, "I'll be happy to give you a tour of the manor someday."

  
  

  Softly, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "That place really is your home as well. And I... I'd be honored to have a place... here. I truly would."

  
  

  Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "Same for the tour, too."

  
  

  A low, contented growl arises within Daraius's chest.

  
  

  Warmly, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "I'll be off to my own place for a bit, find some food, and all. And one day I'll show you where I grew up, Greatest-grandfather."

  
  

  Baring perhaps too many teeth, Daraius says, "I'd quite like that."

  
  

  Daraius gets to his feet an spares a moment to smooth out his garments.

  
  

  Looking around, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard asks, "Now, erm, where was the exit again?"

  
  

  Daraius says, "I'll escort you back to the city. Be sure not to forget your boots."

  
  

  Comprehension flashes across Trahey's face.

  
  

  Trahey slings his coat over himself and makes to re-boot himself. He gives a nod, now ready.

  
  

  Erudio Papercrafts.

  A painting of a Flutter's Dream is proudly exhibited on a nearby wall.

  
  

  Painted mist, in so many tones of grey and aquamarine, spreads itself

  over the canvas to create a gently disorienting reverie. Soft patches of

  white seemingly wink into view - the faint lines inherent in all

  canvases somehow soften them, no doubt helped by the tender brushstrokes

  that produced those patches. Colours are layered and layered again in a

  slightly rougher hand, forgoing any recognisable background in favour of

  an unnamed void whose lone occupant is a double-toothed kite. The orange

  hues that would, in the natural world, have brightened the bird's single

  visible eye, breast and feet are gone, leaving only a silvery-white in

  their place; yet the kite's gaze is all the more striking for this

  change. Its posture is still, contemplative; not even a single wing is

  raised or a feather ruffled. But the spirals of cloud-white paint rising

  up around it reveals the subtle tension thrumming within the small

  raptor - the instincts of a predator, ever watchful.

  It bears the distinctive mark of Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard.

  
  

  Trahey blinks incredulously at a painting of a Flutter's Dream.

  
  

  Indicating the nearby painting with a tilt of his muzzle, Daraius says, "What do you think of that display?"

  
  

  Eyes boggling a little, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "Who bought this?!"

  
  

  A sudden sound somewhere between a bark and a laugh escapes Daraius's muzzle. "I did, of course," he says, eyes sparkling.

  
  

  What is visible of Trahey's ears immediately heat up. "I'm honoured," he stammers. "That was my first try doing something... something serious."

  
  

  With a hopeful little look, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "Fits surprisingly nicely, when it comes to colour, with the room. If I might say so."

  
  

  With an appraising glance at the portrait, Daraius says, "A truly successful effort, I should say. Whatever connection to divinity it has is lost on me, but the subject appears to have a certain, ah... determination I find quite admirable."

  
  

  Shyly, Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "I wanted to show qualities the Order prizes with a symbol that wasn't the dagger or cyclone. Ambiguous presentation, maybe, but hopefully a fresh one."

  
  

  Daraius says, "Appreciated by its buyer, most certainly."

  
  

  With a flick of his tail, Daraius says, "In any event, I was pleased to have won, and pleased that the many patrons who pass through here will have a chance to see your work."

  
  

  Trahey laughs, a soft, joyous sound. "It means a lot that you would hang this right there in your shop, and that you like it." With another smile, he sketches a deep, energetic bow - taking care not to bend too hastily.

  
  

  Temporal Procurator Trahey, Sergeant of the Guard says, "I'm glad we could talk, Greatest-grandfather. I won't forget about the next arrangement."

  
  

  Daraius nods approvingly. "Of course, dear Trahey. For whatever help I can offer you, it is my honor and pleasure."

  
  

  Earnestly, Daraius says, "I hope before too long I'll see you cross the skies of Hallifax with your father."

  
  

  Trahey does not hug the being of motes before him, but his expression says he could have. "Thank you," he says quietly. "I will. I most certainly will." [Oops, he didn't notice Dar was fully tangible this time.]

  
  

  Trahey searches the air in front of him, then tugs upon an invisible strand of force.

  
  

  Daraius says, "May you be well, and your efforts fruitful."

  I used to make cakes.
  
  Estarra the Eternal says, "Give Shevat the floor please."

  5