what are you doing here?

[small_magics]

Isibel has never seen an odder collection of fauna. She has not traveled extensively, but she is sure that creatures of this size - lizards as heavy as ten elves together, beavers eight and nine feet long, turtles with shells the size of small houses - are not customary. Yet the island is riddled with them.

The creatures have no particular fear of elves, but nor do they seek them, and none of her party have been attacked; she feels safe enough traveling through the forest on her own, stepping lightly, looking for the sweep of the treeline and any springs that might be useful for settlers if elves settle here. Besides, she is a student of the small magics, some of which may be cast quite rapidly if there is need; she could frighten away an animal that took too much interest in her. The ribbons tied around each of her knees and ankles (blending seamlessly with the rest of her travel outfit) are some of her finest small magic, guiding her steps so that she may place her feet as elves ought to be able to and bring no embarrassment to her House. They don't make her truly graceful, but she can walk, and care will do the rest.

She's deep into the forested part of the Unknown Island when she starts finding statues. Old statues. The trees have grown up around them, it looks like, they've been here that long; they're worn and weathered and have lichen growing on them.

And they're all of unicorns.

The oldest sculptures are none too skillful, but as she proceeds inward towards the center of the island, they become newer and better and it's plain to see that they're not of unicorns, but a unicorn. A unicorn with a broken horn; this is not, it soon becomes apparent, random damage to early statues. Someone has carved a specific unicorn, dozens - hundreds? thousands? - of times. And the art has been made with such intense love, and the newest of the statues are so delicately done that they look almost like real unicorns, with all the magic that implies, though they hold still and are on closer inspection all still carved from stone.

Someone loved this unicorn, and lived on this island, and made a thousand statues of her, and now the place is inhabited only by giant animals that certainly could have done no such thing. Isibel wonders what happened to the sculptor. To the unicorn, too.

On she walks.

Comments

[endragoned]

Closer still to the center of the island, past another statue, there is the sound of running water. The sound leads her to a tiny trickling stream, and the stream leads her to a large, clear pond—

And floating on his back in the middle of the pond, a naked man with skin as red as apples balances a basket on his stomach with one hand while his other hand dips into the basket to retrieve a berry. His hair is dark and curly, his eyes are closed against the glare of the sun, and he has a pair of enormous scarlet wings that fan lazily in the water to keep him afloat.

[small_magics]

Isibel stops.

She holds very still.

Endarkened.

But - there have been no Endarkened in the world for two thousand years.

How?

(They were truly immortal, though, weren't they, if one chose not to fight but instead hid -

- but the unicorn -

- but Taint, Darkness -

- but he looks so peaceful -

- but they are masters of deceit -

- but if one wanted to deceive her would he not hide the wings, the horns, the color? -

- but there he is. He doesn't even seem to have heard her approach -

- didn't the Legendary Vestakia look Endarkened herself? Was she not the spirit-child of her human mother? -

- but the Legendary Vestakia was not immortal, and there have been no Endarkened to father any more like her for two thousand years.

Isibel simply has no idea.)

She stands still.

She watches and she waits, for him to do something, for - clues. Perhaps she should turn, run, fetch the rest of the exploratory party and summon them all here, perhaps she should try to think of a way to kill him herself.

But he looks so peaceful, and this is not a disguise he is wearing -

And the unicorn.

[endragoned]

The tip of his barbed red tail flicks out of the water next to his knee with a tiny splash, then slips beneath the surface again.

He eats another berry. (His fingernails, and toenails too for that matter, are sharp pointed talons.)

Slowly, peacefully, he opens his eyes.



When he catches sight of Isibel, he yelps and flails, scattering his basket of berries into the water. It is apparently difficult for him to drag those wings above the surface in a hurry, because in the process of trying he manages to sink completely for a few seconds; he comes up coughing and spluttering amid the floating wreckage of his basket, his scarlet skin streaked with purple-black juice from the explosion of berries.

[small_magics]

Isibel decides to hide behind a tree. Then she decides this is stupid, because if he's going to hurt her she should run, and if he isn't, she should keep paying attention and learn what she can about this situation.

She peeps around the edge of the tree tentatively.

[endragoned]

The Endarkened - or whatever he is - has finished spluttering and is staring at her in confusion, wings half-out of the water.

He says something in a half-familiar language, his tone cautious, hesitant.

A berry rolls out of his hair, bounces off his shoulder, and plops into the water.

[small_magics]

- What does that language sound like? Isibel's no linguist. Maybe it reminds her of someone's accent? There are some travelers from outside the Elven Lands in Silverbranch who speak differently than the elves do.

She shakes her head slowly. "I don't know that language," she says carefully. Enunciating.

[endragoned]

He stares at her some more.

His mouth quirks into a wry half-smile.

He speaks again, glancing to the side, as though addressing himself more than her. Some of the words sound almost like the old elven language, the one from which elven names are still regularly drawn but which retains no other common use.

[small_magics]

If only she'd paid more attention to the etymology of anyone's name, she could try to talk in name-parts. But she did not.

She steps out from behind the tree. He hasn't tried to convince her to give over the world to stop some horrific deed, or attempted to eat her skin, or infected her with Taint. As far as she knows, anyway.

She points at herself. "Isibel," she says.

[endragoned]

He blinks at her, then rubs his face with one hand. His palm comes away smeared with berry juice. He licks it.

"Isibel," he repeats, watching her thoughtfully. He says something else, but it doesn't have the rhythm of a name, and he doesn't mirror her indicatory gesture.

[small_magics]

She puts her hands by her sides. "I remain unable to understand you," she points out. (She doesn't try pointing at him. That would be rather like a question. If he doesn't want to share his name, he needn't; it's not even particularly relevant to the question of whether he needs to be killed or not.)

[endragoned]

He laughs, as though he understood.

Then he starts swimming toward the edge of the pond, aiming for an open area near where Isibel is standing.

[small_magics]

She takes a step back.

But only one.

And waits.

If she were going to run, she should've done it before he even opened his eyes.

[endragoned]

The probably-a-demon hauls himself ungracefully back onto land, shakes out his hair and his wings (spraying droplets of water in every direction), and starts picking bits of ex-basket from where the water has stuck them to his skin. He speaks again, in amicable tones, while he does this. His tail flicks back and forth like a contented cat's.

[small_magics]

Isibel wracks her brain - doesn't she know anyone whose name has a meaning she knows that could be useful in that language -

Oh yes. Yes she does.

She knows how to say Unicorn Knight and she knows which part of that phrase means "knight" and which part does not.

"I saw the - unicorn -" she says, gesturing back the way she came. Normally she'd go on - and I had cause to speculate about the carver - but she doesn't have any old language to compose such suggestive unquestions out of.

[endragoned]

His face lights up.

"Unicorn," he repeats, nodding. "Tialle." (Something something) "unicorn" (something, a gesture in the direction that Isibel indicated) "Tialle." (Something something.)

[small_magics]

Isibel spreads her hands. She's still not getting any details, although Tialle sounds like the unicorn's name. Names are not mostly made of practical words. She could say dawn or flower or star, but not the pronouns and the geographical terminology she'd need to find out who this Endarkened-looking person is even if she dropped into War Manners.

But he seems to find talking productive, maybe he'll pick up on some of her language if she goes on talking. "I speculated about the carver of the statues of Tialle the unicorn. The sculptures were clearly made with love."

[endragoned]

He repeats 'unicorn', and 'Tialle', and walks into the forest in the direction of the nearest statue.

Since he is making no particular effort to hide any part of his body, his numerous scars are fully visible as he walks. The membrane between the ribs of his wings is the most spectacular example; if those shiny wandering streaks represent old damage, it must have been shredded almost completely at some point in the past, and regrown since.

[small_magics]

Isibel follows him, nervous but no longer terrified for her immediate physical safety.

[endragoned]

They come upon the statue quickly enough.

He closes his eyes and hugs it around the neck, furling his wings.

[small_magics]

It's not a real unicorn, it's a statue - he is not the Legendary Vestakia, proving his spiritual purity by demonstrating himself fit unicorn-company. It's a compelling display nevertheless.

But Isibel has no idea what's next.

[endragoned]

He kisses the statue's neck and steps back, then holds his left hand against the statue's horn for a moment.

The horn lines up perfectly with a thick, shiny burn scar across his palm.

The Legendary Vestakia was not burned by the touch of a unicorn's horn.

[small_magics]

Isibel bites her lip.

Not like Vestakia, then.

She takes a step back.

"I don't understand," she murmurs.

(Her mother considers it a rude borderline-questioning habit on her part to say I don't understand when she wants more explanation than she's freely given, but Isibel is young yet, and it was not so long ago that she was a child, free of all such constraints. Perhaps she'll learn to more cordially weigh curiosity against manners later in her life. In this case it hardly matters. He cannot understand her.)

[endragoned]

He strokes his fingertips down the broken stone horn.

Then he starts telling a story.

He speaks the whole time, but with the language barrier, the only words that come through are an occasional 'Tialle' or 'unicorn', neither of which is present in the introduction; he seems to understand as much, and supplements the largely incomprehensible narrative with extensive gesturing.

First he points off into the distance and makes a repeated throwing-like gesture: far, far away. Then he sketches the shape of a mountain range in the air, and spreads his hands slowly under it, then brings them fluttering back together. Far, far away in a lot of caves under some mountains.

He points at himself, touches his horns, his wings, brings his tail curling forward around his legs, then makes gestures to indicate a repeated series of similar things. His expressive hands then tuck the series-of-similar-things into the space under the previously established mountains, of which he reminds her with another quick trace of their skyline. Many demons living in a lot of caves under some mountains.

Here he pauses and looks at her, as though to gauge her comprehension, or maybe her willingness to listen.

[small_magics]

Well, listening here is clearly immaterial; she'd be getting about as much out of the recitation if she were stone deaf. But she is willing to watch and interpret.

[endragoned]

He nods, satisfied, and continues.

A pushing-apart gesture, one hand pressing in toward his chest and the other sweeping outward through the airspace nominally occupied by the caverns, indicates a separation between him and the others. He pauses again, considering, and then shrugs and shakes his head; perhaps the details of this separation are not something he feels he can get across in mime.

Its results, however, are.

He traces a circle around his neck, two more around each wrist, draws lines through the air from each of these: chains. In a few quick gestures he bundles up the imaginary chains and shoves them into the depths of the imaginary mountain, drawing a long twisting pathway in the air-representing-stone to indicate the remoteness of the place where he was kept. His hands clap together firmly around his prison and squeeze, sealing his imaginary self inside.

Then he takes a half-step back and opens his hands. This chapter of the story is over.

He folds his wings tightly, tucks his tail against one leg, scrubs his hands through his hair until it hides the short arcs of his horns: he is playing the part of someone without any of these things. Someone shorter, too, or perhaps the way he hunches is meant to denote furtive concealment. His hands sketch a coil of rope in the air, knot it into a noose, and then fling it over the statue's neck and pull it tight. Another bundling-up gesture, and Tialle is tucked into the depths of the mountain.