BATHS OF GIORE| EVENING
Imaan, it was beautiful in the midlands. Nothing but miles of lush green hills and valleys, leading into the ever imposing Damna Erth Gorge. It was a marvel of nature, carved by the eons of water and wind, snow and sun, until it stood like a great hallway beckoning the unwary into its clutches. As they raced across the rocky ground, the calls of the white birds that pulled the carriage echoed off its vast sides, reminiscent of the Echo Casting that was mastered in the site. Of course, there was always danger that the Driegeth would intercept them, but there’d not been violence from the rebels in at least thirty years. The young woman felt no fear as she rode through the gorge, her window open to let the crisp Achtus chill caress her face. Snow had collected on the mountain caps of the Giore Ranges, she could see it even from here as they picked their way further and further in towards Qrieth’s entrance.
It was all so beautiful and yet, her heart felt heavy. Home was what she had deemed necessary. What she had wanted, but she’d wanted to do it with Nauleth. She’d wanted to show him the sweeping hills and the grandeur of Damna Erth. It was a bitter sweet return.
The carriage slowed, and a knock on the roof signalled the Ambassador that they had arrived. As the door was swung open by the attendent, Athrym stepped down out of the relative warmth of the vehicle onto the soft rockdust floor on the narrow pathway that led to the Gates of Imaan. Snow was falling from high, flittering down from the night sky in soft fat flakes to settle on the cold stone ground, melting rapidly should they fall near any of the warm orange phosphorus lights that were nestled in small scones carved along the pathway. Her breath puffed and she pulled back the fur lined hood of her pristine white cloak to stare up at the towering ivory pillars that announced the opening into the great temple city.
Leaving her bags in the care of the attendents, the delicately framed Gioran made her way towards the Gates, looking up at the carvings on the exterior. She knew them all by heart of course, but it seemed almost surreal to see them again. Pausing in between the huge stone structures, she glanced back at the carriage, as though expecting to see a lopsided grinning red head come strolling around from behind it. Like nothing had happened.
“Athrym Bruthgrave?” A level, deep voice said from before her, causing the woman to sigh and turn, her wistful gaze turning into a mask of emotionlessness and something that could be translated as mild boredom. She turned her head up slightly, to look at the towering passive man that stood before her. He was as pale as cut quartz with lavender eyes and white lashes. His hair was long, braided on either side to keep it away from his chiselled face.
Yes, she was definitely home.
“Yes, I am she.” The woman said softly, nodding in a general greeting at the man, uncaring about the lack of field that came from him. As she should be. It was strange, all of a sudden, to see a passive as accepted and welcome as herself. Strange, and proper. It was Aminark’s great gift to them, acceptance of all Gioran galdori no matter their magical prowess. The taller man bowed deeply, before sweeping his arm outwards towards the Amphitheatre.
“Your mother advises she is expecting you. I am to bring you to the Baths to receive her.” The blonde held back a sigh, lifting her chin and raising her hand to stop him.
“Thank you sir. I am well aware of where the Baths of Giore are. You can leave.” Without another word, the man bowed again, before spinning on his heal and leaving the shorter woman to her own thoughts. Of course Carmell knew she was on her way home. Even without telling the woman, she’d managed to get the news somehow. Probably though her wretched father and his connections with Hadrian Siordanti. Fan-clocking-tastic. Taking a deep breath, she moved across the polished white floor, heels clicking loudly as she passed by albino peers like a sore thumb. They were perfection, carved of stone and ice, stoic and as unshakable as the city itself. Towering specimens of her kind, with the purity of skin and eyes that was in Aminark’s very visage.
And she was a short, barely classed as alabaster hybrid with eyes as dark and ugly as the summer hillsides. A freak.
Taking the carved staircase that led towards the Baths, she considered stopping in Upperton. To leave Carmel waiting whilst she bathed in private and changed her travelworn clothing, to rest a moment on her own. It would infuriate the woman, and for once in her life the youngster was not ready for a fight. Her emotional turmoil roiled under the well constructed mask, and she bit the inside of her cheek hard. Pressing on, she entered the arched opening of the Baths, pausing for a moment before she headed directly towards the upper class baths. There was no doubt her mother would be in there, and most likely in one of the private rooms, just to really ensure she could have a proper dig at her wayward daughter.
“Where can I find Carmell Mathel-Bruthgrave?” She asked one of the women attendants, who looked down at her with a steady field and a curious look as the returning Ambassador removed her cloak in the thick humidity of the air in the Baths. The smell of Imaans Breath Blossoms assaulted her senses, almost cloying suddenly. Had it always been that strong?
“Her name is not familiar today. Are you sure—” A woman's voice called out smoothly from over the softly glowing heated waters of the last of the three public pools, a pale arm beckoning her.
“To me, Athrym.” Was all she said.