She was about to plop cross-legged into the grass alongside, since he appeared to prefer it down there, but presently he found his feet. Amused, Nim's thief-marked hand reached to steal a blade of grass from the thicket of his beard, and for a moment she was thinking about the Grey Lady's new spring shoot sticking tremulously from the scorched ground. The grass wriggled like a vine, growing in a long curl around her finger until she imagined it blossomed into the stem of a flower. She'd seen many such wondrous specimens in the grove of Tuuru's home, which was perhaps why she thought of it to look that way. Nimeda grinned and tucked it into the braids at her crown, snug alongside other such botany, including less beautiful if no less treasured sprigs of leaves and twigs.
Her thoughts flooded loose at the Grey Lady's memory, and she did not answer quickly. Rather, she spent a moment working doggedly through the current of more recent memory elicited now by his presence. For he was Tristan, not the name she had called him by. On rare occasions she still returned to his remote home. In fact despite that the great basalt stone never acknowledged her, sometimes she even still spoke to the remnant of his uncle, as though the ritual had become yet another touchstone to mark her passage through this world. Only when she was lonely though, when even dead things contented her more than silence -- and when she was willing to risk the old wolf's vigil. Mostly she only returned to that icy shore to seek the Grey Lady herself though. It ended ever in vain, hence her sometimes babble to the stone.
She wanted to ask Tristan if he had discovered what he sought since she had seen him last, though she could not quite put her mind to the words the hidden one had imparted to him. Such things mattered greatly to her, especially when they spoke of new beginnings. Not the tendrils of prophecy, though they mattered too, but the sense of someone's peace. A wolf grown in the shadow of a troll was no natural thing, and it had troubled him back then. But she supposed it must need to be that way, for a normal wolf would care nothing for a creature who found her home under the waves.
Which of course circled her back both to his question and to her reasons for calling him.
“Words are like stones tied about my ankles,” she murmured, half to him, half to herself. Then: “But I can show you, perhaps. If you will trust me?”
She teetered on the edge of a pause, almost as though she awaited an answer. But either she chose to assume his consent, or she did not wish to hear the hesitation of doubt. “You’re a strong swimmer, I remember that. Though I believe you lost the race.” She tapped a finger against his chest with a grin, then scooped up the boulder of one of his hands to urge him to follow. “Promise me you will not show her your fearsome teeth, Tristan! But it must be a real promise this time, for I do not know what she will do if she thinks you mean her harm, even dreaming!” She called out the words in a breathless rush of air as she pulled him along -- the long way, running over the rock and grass, so that he might have a chance to realise where they were going and prepare himself. Few did not panic to be plunged into the depths of water they must travel, and wolves were creatures of land.
As their feet began to splash, the waters rushed up to meet them like the wide flung arms of an embrace. A little unnatural, granted, but it hastened the journey. Then they were under, the surface but a hazy smear of light far above them. The hair writhed around Nimeda’s beaming face, and for a moment she was distracted with the sheer pleasure of it. Noctua would not swim like this, and she was not sure Mara would see the point in it. Most casual dreamers did not tolerate the deeps Nimeda made habit to explore, caged by the expectations of a reality that did not apply to this world. She wondered if Tristan would be so silly as to try and hold his breath.
Her bright gaze found him, to make sure he was okay however he decided to negotiate the challenge of the waters, and once assured of that she turned with the sleek agility of a fish; for, while she clearly revelled in their new surroundings, it was not why they were here and for once Nimeda did not fall prey to the delights of her own whim.
“You should follow now,” she told him. Her mouth did not open for the words, yet she said them nonetheless. A strong kick of legs propelled her down. Bubbles streamed like tickles along her body, and jetted from her mouth as she played with the air that should not be in her lungs. She just willed it, and it was so. Of course, in the same manner of thought she might have simply willed them straight to their destination, but she enjoyed the fast zip of the swimming and twisting between the playful under-tides.
Down and down and down she took him.
After a while she finally slowed, and then hung there, suspended in the deep nothingness. The current made a lazy exploration, her hair and clothes and limbs in lethargic motion. She could feel ripples now from the creature’s endless vigil, and she turned to check for Tristan’s reaction. Nimeda did not believe him easily scared, but he was a creature of instinct before thought, and she could not imagine he did not sense the presence with them. His soul was old, but they were never quite the same between the turnings.
“Old things wake,” she said. Fondness laced the words; the same great wonder she felt upon her first glimpse of Tuuru. It was shared with all the thrill of a secret, but she did not know if he would really understand that great joy. She supposed it did not matter. “We should not get too close. She dreams, and I do not think - so long as we are quiet - that she will react to us. But she is agitated.” She pulled herself closer, and then a nimble touch reached to angle him a little better, so that when she pointed a slender arm, he would see what was below. “Do you see? Do you understand?”
The creature stirred closer, the iridescent stripes of her scaled markings glowing softly in the murk; a body almost that of a human woman above the waist, if a woman’s skin could be coloured so. As before she seemed mostly unaware of their presence, though the wriggle of her tentacles curled about their limbs in passing. A little enchanted, Nim revolved in a curious circle to follow the monster’s passage, letting Tristan absorb what she showed him nestled far below them -- though she would stop him, if he indicated any interest in drifting closer. Surely a man who called animals kin would know better though. After a time she hooked a hand on Tristan’s bicep. Well, tried to. Her grip had to slide all the way down to his elbow for any purchase. Then she pulled and in the next breath their heads broke the lake’s surface. Nimeda’s bobbed sleek as a seal. “Do you see?” she repeated earnestly. “Do you understand?”
Her thoughts flooded loose at the Grey Lady's memory, and she did not answer quickly. Rather, she spent a moment working doggedly through the current of more recent memory elicited now by his presence. For he was Tristan, not the name she had called him by. On rare occasions she still returned to his remote home. In fact despite that the great basalt stone never acknowledged her, sometimes she even still spoke to the remnant of his uncle, as though the ritual had become yet another touchstone to mark her passage through this world. Only when she was lonely though, when even dead things contented her more than silence -- and when she was willing to risk the old wolf's vigil. Mostly she only returned to that icy shore to seek the Grey Lady herself though. It ended ever in vain, hence her sometimes babble to the stone.
She wanted to ask Tristan if he had discovered what he sought since she had seen him last, though she could not quite put her mind to the words the hidden one had imparted to him. Such things mattered greatly to her, especially when they spoke of new beginnings. Not the tendrils of prophecy, though they mattered too, but the sense of someone's peace. A wolf grown in the shadow of a troll was no natural thing, and it had troubled him back then. But she supposed it must need to be that way, for a normal wolf would care nothing for a creature who found her home under the waves.
Which of course circled her back both to his question and to her reasons for calling him.
“Words are like stones tied about my ankles,” she murmured, half to him, half to herself. Then: “But I can show you, perhaps. If you will trust me?”
She teetered on the edge of a pause, almost as though she awaited an answer. But either she chose to assume his consent, or she did not wish to hear the hesitation of doubt. “You’re a strong swimmer, I remember that. Though I believe you lost the race.” She tapped a finger against his chest with a grin, then scooped up the boulder of one of his hands to urge him to follow. “Promise me you will not show her your fearsome teeth, Tristan! But it must be a real promise this time, for I do not know what she will do if she thinks you mean her harm, even dreaming!” She called out the words in a breathless rush of air as she pulled him along -- the long way, running over the rock and grass, so that he might have a chance to realise where they were going and prepare himself. Few did not panic to be plunged into the depths of water they must travel, and wolves were creatures of land.
As their feet began to splash, the waters rushed up to meet them like the wide flung arms of an embrace. A little unnatural, granted, but it hastened the journey. Then they were under, the surface but a hazy smear of light far above them. The hair writhed around Nimeda’s beaming face, and for a moment she was distracted with the sheer pleasure of it. Noctua would not swim like this, and she was not sure Mara would see the point in it. Most casual dreamers did not tolerate the deeps Nimeda made habit to explore, caged by the expectations of a reality that did not apply to this world. She wondered if Tristan would be so silly as to try and hold his breath.
Her bright gaze found him, to make sure he was okay however he decided to negotiate the challenge of the waters, and once assured of that she turned with the sleek agility of a fish; for, while she clearly revelled in their new surroundings, it was not why they were here and for once Nimeda did not fall prey to the delights of her own whim.
“You should follow now,” she told him. Her mouth did not open for the words, yet she said them nonetheless. A strong kick of legs propelled her down. Bubbles streamed like tickles along her body, and jetted from her mouth as she played with the air that should not be in her lungs. She just willed it, and it was so. Of course, in the same manner of thought she might have simply willed them straight to their destination, but she enjoyed the fast zip of the swimming and twisting between the playful under-tides.
Down and down and down she took him.
After a while she finally slowed, and then hung there, suspended in the deep nothingness. The current made a lazy exploration, her hair and clothes and limbs in lethargic motion. She could feel ripples now from the creature’s endless vigil, and she turned to check for Tristan’s reaction. Nimeda did not believe him easily scared, but he was a creature of instinct before thought, and she could not imagine he did not sense the presence with them. His soul was old, but they were never quite the same between the turnings.
“Old things wake,” she said. Fondness laced the words; the same great wonder she felt upon her first glimpse of Tuuru. It was shared with all the thrill of a secret, but she did not know if he would really understand that great joy. She supposed it did not matter. “We should not get too close. She dreams, and I do not think - so long as we are quiet - that she will react to us. But she is agitated.” She pulled herself closer, and then a nimble touch reached to angle him a little better, so that when she pointed a slender arm, he would see what was below. “Do you see? Do you understand?”
The creature stirred closer, the iridescent stripes of her scaled markings glowing softly in the murk; a body almost that of a human woman above the waist, if a woman’s skin could be coloured so. As before she seemed mostly unaware of their presence, though the wriggle of her tentacles curled about their limbs in passing. A little enchanted, Nim revolved in a curious circle to follow the monster’s passage, letting Tristan absorb what she showed him nestled far below them -- though she would stop him, if he indicated any interest in drifting closer. Surely a man who called animals kin would know better though. After a time she hooked a hand on Tristan’s bicep. Well, tried to. Her grip had to slide all the way down to his elbow for any purchase. Then she pulled and in the next breath their heads broke the lake’s surface. Nimeda’s bobbed sleek as a seal. “Do you see?” she repeated earnestly. “Do you understand?”
![[Image: thal-banner-scaled.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/thal-banner-scaled.jpg)