The Dirae
Half the world away in a land of forests...
This was war.
At least it would be within the sense that, if the old buck didn't watch his antlers the next time he paced her front room—and if he happened to damage a very old, very important chandelier—Dirae Taormina was going to find herself on the bad end of a trial for bludgeoning the fool. Still, judging by the amount of other refuse that had become wrapped about—or trapped within—the prongs and tines of the yet-to-shed cranial adornments, surely it would not have been the first time.
“The stones do not lie,” she told him in spite of the fear for her belongings. And, yes, the front room of her home was filled with them. The Sunset Fawn was known for garnering the attention of all sorts of peoples across the world, and here sat their attentions in material form. She liked to display them for their prominence—gifts from Kings went near the front, as well as those from so-and-so's that no one had heard of, save her, but had interesting names with which she could weave a story or two. One of these obscurities was a lovely, pale jade urn from some village-level mayor called Tymbeddal. Despite the fact that she, herself, could no longer remember the true tale of its origin, she spared the thing a wince when the buck's pacing jarred the shelf it sat upon.
“That is their nature,” she continued, nonetheless. “The Fiorlien are not unlike two fawns entangled in utero. There is the choice to take them... Or there is the one to save the mother.” Sighing quite pointedly, Taormina took to her hooves—abandoning her seat for the first time since he had entered. “You did ask,” she said, as careful fingers set about untangling the length of white mane that draped over one thin shoulder.
She was well used to the look he gave her then. It was desperation in its simplest form—a look that belonged to Men, not Cervidaen—“What about the staff?” he managed. “Can you ask the staff?”
“The Staff of Dawn has no words.”
Honestly, what did these people take her for? Had she not spent the majority of her life dwelling beneath the same branches as they? Had the old mother does—which, she knew he had a few in his family—not watched her run about the paths with the rest of the children? In the end, of course, she knew it was the title. Titles were bad omens. If you were named King, there were the kingslayers and usurpers to worry over. If you were the last of anything, friends and family forgot that you had once been normal. No one ever remembered that you had been a child, cub or fawn who had stumbled about and learned to walk and talk just as they once had. Unfortunately for her, where her future had once held the promise of husbands and wives and a few offspring just like the rest of them, the Lady Dirae now had titles to take the place of all that.
So, to answer herself, they took her for what she was—which she hadn't entirely figured out herself, just yet, but in the meantime, she was the one who was supposed to fix things for them—answer their questions—and in the final act, bring them to an endless sleep.
“I suppose I must take it then,” he said in a small voice, stepping forward to bow his head and allow her to smear a handful of crushed berries into his forelock.
He supposed? “Yes. That would be for the best,” was managed without a break in demeanor. “You should take a candle to the northern stream and light it for Our Lady. Say the twenty-second hymn.” She led him toward the door as she spoke and held the first veil of beads to the side for him to pass. “When you return home, clean your entryway with lavendar.” And be grateful for such a short list.
When—and only when—he was out of sight would she exit the front room herself. Though not much more than head and long neck peeked out and angled up toward her door-guard. “Let no one else enter,” she said—knowing that he heard her despite his lack of acknowledgment. “I've a bad case of the beckonings.” It was work enough to get herself to a place to lie down before it got too strong. The last thing she needed was having to worry about anyone seeing it happen.
The lack of anyone being there to see, however, was probably why she only made it over the threshold before hitting the floor. Everything in that dim room was suddenly white before a familiar voice—or, rather, combination of voices speaking in unison—filled her ears and reverberated to her bones.
Have I got a job for you.
