The first day, Tristaan had slept through entirely. Once unconscious, the passive had simply not roused again, and the small family unit of Deep Water wicks had gladly given up one of the rooms on their generously-sized kintboat for the injured man and the dark-haired witch who they assumed was with him to share, the children who normally slept in it more than happy to sleep under the stars or cram into another room for the week of travel to Surwood from the Harbor. The room was very small but comfortable, with woven mats for a floor and bedrolls that could be folded up and put into the small closet when not sleeping on them.
Everything about the kintboat was simple and efficient—the family of wicks that lived aboard spanned four generations of grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins and couples, some of their relationships ambiguous but openly caring about each other and their offspring as a group. They fished and dug up river clams, selling them up and down the Arova from the Harbor to Surwood all year long, and so the back and forth trip was just a regular part of their nomadic lives. Farhid was somewhere in the middle, with his grandmother being the elder of their unit along with a great uncle. They made the final decisions, but everyone seemed to have a very cooperative way of living that didn't require too many difficult decisions anyway. While the passive slept, the green-haired healer slept also, exhausted from his extensive use of vroo. Though, the next day, he was at it again, finishing the healing work he'd began until the passive was perhaps better off than he'd been in weeks.
Sarinah was given as much or as little space as she desired while Tristaan slept like a stone—always offered opportunities to help here and there or to sit quietly, to have conversation or to be alone. There were a handful of curious children who would peek in on the sleeping passive who'd been dragged onto their home bloodied and angry, but those children were just as curious about the olive-skinned dancer and her fleeting smile.
Even after he stirred to wakefulness the next day, however, the dark-haired passive barely spoke, had little interest in eating, and mostly did what he could to hide in the room he was given once properly washed and insistently fed. He was grateful, perhaps, but struggled to show it, obviously so afraid of himself and even more terrified of anything else happening to innocent people around him who didn't deserve the bizarre mental destruction he now knew he was capable of. He feigned more exhaustion than he felt, for while he was still sore even after the magical healing, he was so used to enduring much more that he would have functioned just fine had he needed to.
But, surely, no one really needed him.
Or at least, they shouldn't.
Not anymore. He'd gotten her out of the Rose, but at what cost? Had he really made things better? Or worse? He didn't know anymore and he didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to talk about anything, not really, the blurred vision of his diablerie's effect on the street near the Market seared into his memory with pain.
Tristaan had lived his whole life after his eighth birthday aware of what he was, and yet he'd only experienced the diablerie's of others. He often fantasized that his test scores had been wrong and he was just as much a galdor as he should have been, that his lack of a field was because he had never been formally introduced to magic ... not because he wasn't capable.
Now, oh now, he knew the truth. And the truth was he was just another scrap.
His normal hours of waking and sleeping were so different from the Deep Water spokes who had been nothing but kind to him—too kind, saving his life and all—that it was easy to crawl back to the room he and Sarinah had been given during the daytime hours and stare at the handcrafted wood walls of the kintboat or look out the small window in the small room, hiding under blankets and not answering the door. They shared the room, however, and slept in it, and while the warmth of the lovely witch's comfort called to him in ways he couldn't put into words, he found every reason to avoid her, to keep them just separated enough that he didn't surrender to his fiery need to hold her and be held.
It was perhaps a little cruel after all they had been through, after all that she deserved in praise and heartfelt unspoken things, but the dark-haired passive was so caught up in fear of himself and fear of his lack of worthiness that he did nothing to reach out to the one person who needed him as much as he needed her.
Tristaan resisted everything for as long as he could stand it, until he felt half-mad with silence and hurt. The Arova gurgled and rushed by outside the small open window, reflecting half a moon and stars and the shadows of trees along the bank. The wicks steering at night were awake near the prow and their laughter while they played games to pass the Houses drifted through the living quarters with warmth. Grey eyes studied now-familiar wood grain in the sliding door of the closet, curled up under covers in the darkness, listening to the lovely witch behind him breathe quietly, assuming she was asleep by now in the strange hours just before dawn.
His thoughts raced like Roalis' dragonflies over the water's surface—fast and random, darting suddenly and hovering some others. He had fought with all that he had for Sarinah's freedom, and for what? To ignore her? It was foolish, and he ached for her voice as much as he longed for her touch. What could he really say? What was there to make things alright when he feared he would never be ... well ... anything? Anything other than trash or trouble, at least.
There was a shift in the lovely witch's field and Tristaan couldn't help but wince, assuming she was dreaming but biting his lip as if to muster his resolve anyway, the dark-haired passive rolled over and through the purposeful space between them until he hovered behind her, hesitant. He didn't know what to say and he wasn't sure if he should say anything. He just couldn't take the quiet any more and he knew, without a doubt, that he wanted her near himself, not far away, that he needed her more than he understood. His heart raced in his chest with fear but he moved to place a calloused hand lightly against the olive-skinned dancer's back,
"Sarinah—" He meant to wake her, if she was sleeping, yet his voice was barely above a whisper in the dark, weighed down by a nervousness he wasn't used to and a sadness he was, "—I've been hidin' an' I'm sorry. I ent been—I'm no'—I don't really know what t' say. Epaemo."
It was his turn to say those words, or so he thought, though he couldn't apologize for his birthright—he couldn't change from being the broken thing he was born as all those years ago. Far from the Harbor, free but most likely wanted for a price, he'd almost died for this freedom, for hers, and he didn't even know what to do with it all. With the lovely witch.
Or, maybe he did and that understanding was just as scary as how well he now knew himself.
Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open.
— Passive Proverb
Last edited by Tristaanian Greymoore on Tue May 01, 2018 11:09 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 1407
Bethas 14th, 2718 AROVA RIVER | Some Time Before Dawn
Sarinah slept, a deep slumber of one who had spent the last days in a whirlwind of emotions and was now lost as to where to go next. The slumber of one who had spent too many maw waiting for their time to come. The first day on the family kintboat however, she had not slept at all.
Shock and worry kept her awake, unsure of what she was supposed to do now and feeling alone on a boat full of people. The brunette dancer had kept a vigil by Tristaan’s side, politely declining offers of help or just to talk with the briefest of smiles. The children that peaked their heads in perhaps caught glimpses of the witch, head on bent knees and hand holding the unconscious man’s, as though through constant physical connection he would wake and be alright again. Her mind replayed the escape over and over, the moment that the spell had hit them all.
The smells of home.
Her daoa’s tea.
Her da’s smile.
The moment Tristaan had roused the dancer had been exhausted, her face drawn and deep dark circles under her eyes, but oh how the sight filled her with relief. Her relief however quickly turned to hurt confusion, the man that she’d run to in Old Rose withdrawing from the woman, from everyone, speaking very little and spending his days in the room that Farhid and his fami had provided. Sarinah gave him space, standing at the doorway to watch him quietly, or moving around the boat to occupy her mind. She cried softly in the late hours of night, watching the moon shimmering off the river and letting the cool river breeze carry away her quiet sobs until she crept into the room, laying in the small shared bed they were ultimately forced to occupy together, silently mourning for what seemed to have been lost. At first, she’d been unsure what had changed between them. Of course though, it was obvious.
The passive clearly blamed her, hated her for everything that had come to pass. And with good reason. Every bruise and bloodied wound, every broken bone had been on her head. She shouldn’t have let Bridgette take her from the Queen—ne, she should have never gone to him in the storm.
But ye did, and here ye are.
Here she was. The trip to Surwood went too slowly, the next day just another break in her heart. Sarinah wasn’t just aching for the painful loss of what-could-have-been, but she was afraid. Together, with the passive’s caring guidance, the raven haired wick felt like she truly could stand on her own and find her feet after the Queen. Now though, she felt alone. A bochi wandered into the wilds and their torch blown out. She needed to talk to someone who understood, who could validate her fears about being free. What did she do now? Where should she go? Would her parents accept her?
She needed more than ever a friend, and as far as the brunette could tell, she didn’t even have that.
Rolled away from the dark haired man, curled up against the edge of the bed to give him as much room as possible, Sarinah had cried herself to sleep sometime after midnight. She dreamed fitfully about the Queen and their escape, her mind always on the cusp of waking up, always ready for the touch of unwanted hands. Vividly, she dreamt of the powerful field that had swept over the Market, field flinching even in her sleep as she relived the moment.
Was it his? It couldn’t be his. The question went around and around in her mind, in sleep as much as it had the past few days on the boat. She’d said nothing to the kindly fami that gave them so much, unsure of what had really happened and afraid to bring judgement on the grey eyed passive.
The whisper of Tristaan’s voice broke through her dreamscape softly, like the brush of Bethas breezes through the trees along the banks of the Avora. For a moment, the olive skinned dancer thought it was part of the dream, her heart grieving for the cruelness of her mind. Then she felt it, a soft hand on her back, ripping her instantly awake with a gasp. Heart pounding in her chest, she held still, gathering her senses. It wasn’t the Queen, it was the kintboat.
And it wasn’t Wesley. It was Tristaan.
Laying in the dark, her mahogany gaze traced over the shapes of the wood grain on the wall, listening to his barely audible words over the gentle chorus provided by the bubbling river and singing night insects. The rumble of his whisper finished, and for longer than perhaps was expected, Sarinah lay silently as she tried to find her voice. He was sorry, and for a moment her field flared with anger, before it dissipated.
He didn’t need to be sorry.
“Ent anything you need to apologise for Tristaan. I shouldn’t have let Bridgette bring me.” She whispered finally, fighting to control the waiver in her voice, all the confusion and hurt from the days of silence dancing at the peripheral of her field. Her chest hurt, fingers curling into the blanket tightly, wishing she could go back in time and undo all that had been done.
“I understand if ye hate me.” Sarinah breathed, tucking the linen against her cheek as she forced down the tears that fought to spring forth, savouring the warmth of his hand on her back.
Alioe, she missed him. Even laying right beside the passive, and she missed him. The wick closed her eyes, memories vivid once again of the spell that had washed over them all.
If they were done, she could at least ask the question that danced on her lips.
She tensed at his touch and he flinched at the sharp flare of her field, suddenly wary of his decision to wake Sarinah in the first place, but somewhere inside he knew better than to continue to be shallow, to keep being so selfish. Her first words made him sigh, the regretful reminder that not only had he hurt her, but he'd left her to question whether all the danger had been a better choice at all. It had been the right decision—leaving—and Tristaan would have done it all over again. Well, almost all of it.
"What? Ne, that's—damn it—that's no' what I'm sorry for."
He replied quietly, ignoring all the fear that bristled through him sharply at the thought of what kind of wretched creature he must have really been to make her feel such depths of regret. He swallowed other words and chose instead to press closer still and to wriggle an arm beneath the lithe dancer, to ignore blankets and embrace her from behind. Stubbled cheek against olive skin, he closed his eyes, unwilling to admit to himself that he'd been desperate for her touch despite his purposeful distance, that he'd only been hurting himself as much as he'd hurt her in his weakness and fear. How he'd worried for her, days gone by without a word after they'd shared all of themselves in shamelessly beautiful rebellion. How he'd missed her and yet the needful motion to hold her felt as clocking difficult as it did relieving, "I ent sorry for leavin'. Y' did th' right thing, lettin' Bridgette get y' out o' th' Rose, Sarinah. M'haps comin' t' me was th' only mistake, but—"
Her field spoke without words in ways that he'd learned to interpret over time from being around other wicks even if each one was unique to the individual in ways he both admired and feared, it was something he could never emulate and knew he could never entirely understand. But her words hurt, dug into the sore places, and the dark-haired passive was quiet for a moment, curled against her like a lost animal,
"Hate you? Ne." Tristaan repeated the words, incredulous, his voice raising above a whisper. He'd nearly died for her freedom, and he would have done it again. And again. She deserved far more than he could give, and he'd done a terrible job of even attempting to offer her anything resembling his feelings for her. He cared far more than he thought he should, more than he should have allowed his dangerous self to, that much he knew but couldn't figure out how to express. Silent while he let the sting of such a thought burn in his scarred chest, "Ne, I don't. I can't. Macha, I'm th' tsuter spitch here. Th' liar an' th' monster. Y' needed away from that place, y' deserve so much better, rosh, but I made everythin' worse. It's true. I did. Don't tell me different. Y' should be hatin' me instead—jus' please know that I care for you, Sarinah Lissden, an' that makes me afraid. Afraid an' stupid. Epaemo. I hurt you by hidin', but y' should have left me. I'm nothin' but—"
He paused, inhaling a broken breath and refusing tears by hiding his face against lovely skin and dark hair, her question sharp like a knife in the dark. He didn't want to answer, he didn't want to admit out loud what a cursed creature he really was.
"—that? That were me. M' diablerie—what proves I'm broken, useless, cursed b' all th' Circle, an' unfit t' be out in th' world ... an' yet here I am. That's what makes me forever a scrap an' never a golly, that makes me dangerous. I'm a passive, no matter what tekaa life I try t' hide behind. I hide because otherwise, I'd jus' be another slave in Brunnhold 'r back in some factory, keepin' th' everyone safe by bein' out o' th' way. I've seen others have 'em, but I've never—I haven't—I thought maybe I was different. That maybe I didn't have one. Now I know—"
Tristaan unraveled behind her, his words slowly becoming quieter and more strained with emotional pain, with the weight of the truth he'd secretly refused to entirely believe. He could remember how it felt, how the surge of uncontrollable power filled his whole being with the breath he couldn't take. He could remember how it'd filled the Market with a rush of something so horrible and so strange that people seemed to lose themselves somewhere else, and he was helpless to stop it. It was a strange taste of something he'd envied his whole life and yet it was so wild and raging that just the memory was enough to make his breath hitch with terror.
Gods, what a monster.
Alioe, he was truly nothing but a reject, a scrap.
His unspoken hopes of mistaken testing, of some redemption fantasy, shattered when Wesley lost his mind above him with the force of whatever magic had been unleashed by his broken body. The mona that had ignored him for twenty-odd years took that moment to speak up. And he hadn't even been able to listen.
Pressed against the comforting warm body of the lovely witch, panic flooded his veins at the memories and he whined a sound of fear instead of finishing his sentence. With the same quickness he'd moved to hold her, he began to pull his arms away, revealing in his sudden need to retreat his real reasons for hiding these past few days. His fear overwhelmed his last few words and set his heart racing in his scarred chest. Bringing his calloused hands up to his face behind her, he almost growled, fingers curling into his hair as he tried to shield himself from her comforting warmth with his elbows, reluctant to lean away because somewhere inside he still knew he needed her,
"—now I know what I truly am, an' it's jus' as horrible as I've been told m' whole life. I've kept hopin' t' be somethin' different, I've tried so hard t' be anythin' other than what I am. But I've felt 't now. I've seen now what I can do, an' gods, Sarinah, why didn't y' jus' leave me there on th' docks t' die? I shouldn't be 'round people!"
Maybe he knew the answer, but he was afraid to hear it. Tristaan tensed, the dark-haired passive wanting to sit up and crawl away, far away, but he opened his eyes in the dark and spoke with regret and apology, with longing and self-loathing,
"Epaemo. I shouldn't have come with you. Y' would've been safer without me. Epaemo. I want y' away from me, no matter how much it hurts t' say that because I care, Sarinah, but there's a reason m' kind's kept as they are an' maybe now I see 't, too. I'm no' safe. I don't deserve good things like you, ye chen? Gods, epaemo, I've led y' somewhere I can't go. I want—I want t' be with you, ye chen—th' way I've felt around you has been so different—worth fightin' for, macha, but I'm th' worthless one. An' I can't protect y' from m'self."
Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open.
— Passive Proverb
Last edited by Tristaanian Greymoore on Tue May 01, 2018 11:10 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 1324
"Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open."
— Passive Proverb
Bethas 14th, 2718 AROVA RIVER | Some Time Before Dawn
Sarinah pressed her lips together to quell the heartbroken sob that wanted to escape as Tristaan moved to almost scoop her into his arms, so desperately grateful for the warmth of his touch. She took another deep breath, finding a sense of calm amid the turmoil of emotions. The passive vehemently denied hating her, spilling forth with words instead of self loathing and regret. The dancer moved a hand to lace it with his, holding tightly and shaking her head, almost arguing with the broken man.
“Don’t. Don’t Tristaan. Ye ent. Ent any of that. I couldn’t hate ye kov, I woul—“
...jus' please know that I care for you, Sarinah Lissden, an' that makes me afraid…
The witch felt a rush of warmth, unsure exactly what to make of his admission, the sound of her full name whispered in the dark a beautiful hymn of the faith. The grey eyed passive cared for her? She held her tongue, listening quietly as he continued, answering the question she had been unable to.
It was him.
Sarinah opened her eyes, frowning into the darkness as she listened to Tristaan’s explination. How could there possibly be something, from nothing. It made no sense. Like a human suddenly having magic. She wanted to ask questions, to understand more, but then—
Oh, the pain in his voice.
The brunette could feel it happening again, he was hurting more than words could say, and rather than let her in, the dark haired passive was pulling away. Isolating himself like a criminal. Sarinah shifted, raising on her elbow and turning to look back at the man.
“Tristaan, just hold on a—” Moving quickly, she faced him propped on one arm, her black hair cascading down between them.
“Leave ye to die? Ne, I—” She watched as the passive curled calloused fingers into dark hair, even by the low light of the moonlight, the brunette could see the anguish on his face. His voice was raw, broken, truly believing himself a monster. The strange field and casting in the market had been frightening, the images of her parents overwhelming. Others yet had screamed and cried in pain or terror, the spell affecting people differently. True, the power behind the casting was unpredictable and wild, but the dancer couldn’t accept the man before her was a monster because of it. Gently, the wick reached out to take one of his hands from his hair, lowering it slowly and entwining her fingers between his.
“I ent sure what makes ye think ye ent safe, kov. The truth is without your...diablerie...I don’t think…” The young dancer faltered, swallowing the fear that threatened to constrict her words, taking another deep breath.
“I don’t think we would have left the market alive, ye chen?” She said softly, searching over the scarred and tortured man’s face in the lowlight, tears stinging the corners of her eyes as she suddenly chuckled a bitter sound.
“Tristaan I…I ent a good thing. Ye deserve much more than me. Much more than the trouble I’ve caused. Dangerous? Ne, not to me.” Tilting forward hesitantly, Sarinah brushed his lips tentatively with a soft, comforting kiss. Leaning back again on her elbow, the dancer brushed the back of his hand with her thumb.
“Ye ent worthless to me. I can’t…I don’t want to do this alone. Ye make me feel safe, safer than I have in manna maw, and I don’t want to go where ye can’t.” Closing her eyes with brow furrowed, she spoke with a passionate whisper, squeezing the tanned man’s hand.
“Please don’t push me away Tristaan. We’ve both been trapped so long, and I’m afraid ham—“ The brunette looked at him again, mahogony eyes wide as she caught herself mid sentence, before quickly dropping her gaze to the linen’s between them.
“I’m afraid balach. Afraid of...dze...I can’t even say. Nothing. Everything. This, us. What happened to me, what I felt when I saw you broken and bloodied and...dying...“ She took another shaky breath, struggling to hold herself together at the terrifying memory.
“I just don’t want to do this without ye, ye chen?” Sarinah drew her lip between her teeth, worrying it nervously before she finally looked at him again.
The dark-haired passive closed his eyes when the lovely witch shifted her body next to his, the brush of her dark hair light and teasing against tanned, scarred skin even as her words sank beneath the hardened exterior he'd built over the years. He didn't look at her when she took one of his hands, when she spoke of safety and reminded him of how the moment would have been much, much different had the mona not decided to move without his bidding,
"I had no control over what happened, ye chen." Tristaan whispered, her fingers tangled so comfortably with his, grey eyes reluctantly taking in her teary face,"Twenty-odd years an' I've been where I was before—oes, almost dead, I can say 't—but nothin' like that's happened b'fore. That's what makes me no' safe, that's what makes me dangerous. That—m' diablerie—could happen any time: takin' a walk, eatin' a meal, layin' here with you. An' what then? Th' next time? What if it's worse? What if somethin' happens? An' I can't stop it! It jus' ... is there, like m’—"
Like his shadow.
Like a curse.
The dark-haired passive let his words fade unfinished, sighing, restless with the emotions and fears that writhed in the hull of his chest,
"Oes, I know 't." He wasn't stupid. He knew Wesley had been a few precious heartbeats away from killing him, from leaving his worthless, breathless body in the Market and dragging Sarinah away to a hellish fate he'd be forever unable to rescue her from. The thought twisted in his gut and made him angry just at the memory of the threats, but a wave of fear washed over those budding flames at the memory of just how out of control he’d really been. She spoke of her own sense of worth and he frowned, words too familiar to ignore,
”Ne, there's a difference. You—" The lovely witch kissed him and his eyes closed heavily, heart racing in his chest at the press of her body against his, at the way she spoke and the things she said made him feel, at the way hopelessness ebbed from his thoughts in her persistent presence. Tristaan's free hand traveling over olive skin to keep her close, he spoke huskily,
"Y' ent trouble, macha. Y' were in trouble, but now y' ent. Well, m'haps y' still are, a pina manna, eh? 'Cause o' me." His smile in the dark was fleeting, but genuine and mischievous. He shook his head as if to chase the shadows away, biting his lip as he took in all of her words and tried to put them together, "I don’t deserve anythin', but that doesn't mean I want nothin' out o' th' life I somehow keep managin' t' live, no matter th' mess I make o' things. I do."
If he followed her quickly unfinished words to conclusion, he said nothing, choosing instead to free his hand from hers so that he could wrap both arms around her whole self, so that he could entangle their bodies instead of just their fingers, holding her needfully with a slow, thoughtful exhale. Quiet for several heartbeats, the dark-haired passive found himself unable to put together complete sentences to express his agreement, to express the feelings the lovely witch stirred in his thoughts, to express just how much fear he lived his life in—his life spent purposefully alone. Like a drifting vessel in need of an anchor, he just held her tightly and said nothing, concentrating on the rise and fall of their breathing bodies and on the faint thrumming of their hearts through skin, "Please? Oes. Alright. Oes."
Tristaan hummed quietly, finally finding words, "I've fought m' whole life for a piece o' somethin' I've been told I can't have, for a chance t' prove I ent broken, an' it's clockin' hard t' keep believin' any 'f it alone. Y' gotta understand a few things, though, an' I don't like lettin' folks into th' ugly places. But you've seen plenty 'f ugly. There’s been so much laoso livin' between th' both ‘f us put together, even though our lives have been so different. I don't want t' do whatever this is without you now that I know what it's like with you instead. Jus', I don't know how t' explain—"
The dark haired passive was restless in their embrace, longing to simply disappear against the olive expanse of her skin, their bodies together both a comfort and a distraction. He moved to kiss the lithe dancer again, lingering without the same softness, seeking the words he couldn't find against the soft warmth of her mouth, breathless when he leaned away,
"I wasn't given a choice. I didn't have a contract t' sign. I was born th' way I am." He whispered painfully, though his calloused hands roamed her body with unspoken feelings, with a longing for comforts conversation alone couldn't provide, "When I was a boch, once m' parents discovered I couldn't do th' magic they could, they set me on th' street an' never looked back, 'cause t' them, I wasn't jus' dangerous, I was broken, worthless. You're a beautiful bird, born free an' tricked an’ put 'n a cage, but freed again an’ no spoke‘ll question that like a brigk’ll question me. Th' price for freedom was high, ye chen, an' well, it still is, but you've got wings. An’ y’ were so clockin’ worth it, t' me anyway.”
He shifted, wanting their bodies tangled closer still, needing to express himself, “I don't have a freedom like that somewhere waitin' for me, no matter how far I keep runnin'. I can never escape who ‘r what I am, Sarinah. I don't know what's worth livin' for, but I've stubbornly kept on. By th' goddess, m'haps I've jus' been waitin' for someone like you. But—"
His admission was fervent and far from shy, hands traveling over her lovely body to hold her face, fingers brushing through her dark hair, heart racing fiercely against the freshly re-knit together bones of his chest. Tristaan held the rich depths of her gaze in the dark, his grey eyes edged in tears as he echoed her own words back to her, both assuaged and overwhelmed by their parallels despite their differences, "—I'm afraid, too. Afraid 'f how y' make me not want t' be alone. I'm afraid 'f everythin'. Nothin'. This, us. What happened t' me, what I felt when I thought o' you bein' trapped in that place, sold an' used. I don't know what t' do about th' way I feel around you, macha, but I don't want t' push y' away. Epaemo. I've never—you're somethin' else. An' I need this, whatever this is between us, dangerous 'r no'."
This season encompasses the month of YARIS, which is 80 days in total. The days are incredibly hot and very dry across all of Anaxas, with only the occasional angry thunderstorm ravaging across the Kingdom. Brunnhold is back in session
Read more about the dry season in the Ten Kingdoms here.