Unearth The Shadows

13

Davir Her Arun | 21st day of Sprout season

As they traversed a cluster of pines thriving on sandy, dark terrains, Davir remained alert, hands firm on his reins. On his stallion, he trotted on a dimming path, temples brushing leaves perched on lanky twigs. Eyes adjusted to the thickening dark, their short-reach down bendy ways promised unexpected danger.

Davir inhaled in strenuous focus, forehead creased with skin folds around his brows. He grasped onto his vessel. Shadows leaked into his body like molten smoke, turning malleable to his will.

The aftermath of the unnatural expansion of his senses was exhaustion matching fighting a blackcircle battle. A minor inconvenience to ensure some control over the situation.

He refocused on the thin path ahead, energy leaking. Like tentacles flourishing, his awareness extended to reach a radius of fifty paces around them. Even the sounds of crawling insects and that of birds beating wings as the two-men patrol approached echoed neatly.

The more Davir grasped energy from the vessel, the more his natural dexterity with wielding the shadows seemed evident. Acting on his heartbeat allowed him to control the speed of energy extraction from the vessel. His breathing controlled the caliber of each thread. By thining the threads of energy enough- to enter the body from the pores- he could read into the flesh without direct touch, and with great precision.

Soon his awareness was onto the heir, indecently revealing him. Like watching him naked in his bath: alcohol run through his veins, giving him a slight stupor. The threads around his brain revealed anger most of all.

One inconvenient revelation about his past by the soothsayer, and Davir could find himself the subject of that anger.

The canopy thickened enough to prevent sunlight from reaching the ground. The heir's horse waned and slowed, now trotting just three gallops ahead of Davir. His lantern of white crystal dust ignited. Heron hooked the metal cage on the edge of his wooden saddle. The white light blew bright, countering the darkness, otherwise thick enough to conceal the details of the heir's shape, and casting a glare to a barrier of thick vines blocking the path.

The heir jumped down his horse. His steps should falter, given how much he had drunk, but his balance remained intact. At the height of his thigh, the heir reached for a curt, triangular vineknife lodged inside his pocket. And he cleaned the way cluttered with vines with rapid and precise arm swipes, then sheathing the small handknife where he'd extracted it.

On his horse, the first thing his swarthy fingers clasped- first even than the reins- was the liquorskin into the pouch hanging at the side of the stallion. Each swig appeared to erupt a soft gasp for air. A trail of the honey-colored liquor, painted golden by the lantern's brightness, overflowed his lips and slid down his neck to imprint black drop marks on the blue collar of his tunic.