"What?" she barks, her squinting eyes glaring toward the intruder to this, her private area.
"Lady, y-you said to come if, if..." the other stammers.
Opening her eyes, Kirthag notices it is the lad she had gotten employed in Blackthorn's castle. He is only one of several young ones in her service, her ears around the realm. She relaxes some, knowing this particular boy would only come here, all the way to Yew from Britain, if it is of some important thing. "Not 'ere lad. Go to the kitchen and I'll meet ya there."
The boy's eyes widen with the unspoken promise of some succulent treat. He nods and dashes away quickly through the castle.
She stands from her desk. Age may be creeping up on her, for the chill of the past winter is still a strong memory to her joints. Kirthag stretches, muscles reacting to the movement under her simple linen gown as she reaches toward the ceiling. She still moves with the solid grace only granted to those who have earned their mettle on the fields of valor. Donning a cloak for warmth, she exits the office.
In the kitchen, the boy sits upon a short stool near the counter, his eyes large as he looks upon the concoctions of a budding master chef; his mouth salivating as he tastes the aromas thick in the air. He attempts to compose himself as Kirthag enters the room, but his hunger makes his stomach growl.
"Boy! When last did ya eat?" Kirthag asks as she moves toward a bubbling cauldron containing something savory boiling happily over the hot coals.
The boy just stares as the Celt takes a wooden bowl and scoops some sort of wondrous stew from the cauldron. She smiles at him, handing him the bowl with a spiked wooden spoon. "This be curry, lad, and ye'll want ta use this... spork." Taking the strange utensil and the full bowl, the boy is beside himself with the anticipation of such a feast.
"M'lady, but... f-f-first, at Castle B-b-blackthorn, a strang-g-ger speaketh o' some... f-f-fellowship," the boy stammered.
Ripping a chunk of bread from a loaf on the counter, Kirthag sets it before the boy and nods slowly. "Continue," she utters, waving him to place the bowl on the counter in front of him.
The boy does so, takes the spork, and scoops a large chunk of stewed beef with just the right amount of melting fat and gristle. His eyes are wide, savoring the meal to come, but stops and shifts his gaze toward his hostess. "The strang-g-ger speaketh like th' Wraith people. He hath that look like nothing else is p-p-proper, e'en the K-k-king."
She lets that sentence hang in the air for a moment. Her mind mulling over what the boy said, and the memories that news has summoned. She nods once, signaling the boy who starts shoveling the curry stew into his gaping maw. He smacks his lips with zest and contentment as Kirthag leaves him at the kitchen counter.
~*~
She moves now, several hours later, through the halls of her Yew castle, with a torch in hand. She is wearing heavier clothing: lined leather with a heavy fur cloak about her shoulders. She is deep within the older halls of her home where boxes and chests are not just locked, but sealed with magicks and wards against opening. Her hair is loose, hanging well past her shoulders and catching in the cobwebs of the catacombs that haven't been burned away by her passing. By the time Kirthag stops at a certain door, the webbing is thick over her fiery red locks.
Standing at the door is a tall, slender figure in robes of light. Kirthag lowers her torch with a sigh, and stares at the other figure.
"This door hadn't been opened since 'that time', has it Celt?" The figure turns toward Kirthag, her dark eyes sparkle with the light of her raiment, not the torchfire.
Kirthag replies, "Nae. Not e'en a rat would chew the wood of this door."
The figure nods, then lowers the hood of her shining cloak. Hair dark as the Void shines with the sheen of exotic, fragrant oils from distant worlds. Her dark eyes survey Kirthag for a moment, and she nods slowly. "You've aged some, haven't you?"
"We all do. Mind ya it dun catch up t'ya as well," Kirthag barks back. "A'sides, Darksinger, ye've been in that Void too long, eh?"
The Darksinger observes Kirthag for a moment. Is this still the warrior woman she called sister, enemy, and savior? The tall woman tilts her head slightly as her mind starts to gestate upon that question - but is quickly interrupted.
"Ya might be able ta contemplate th' Multiverses with long thoughts, but if we're gonna do this, ya need to speed things up a bit." The impatience in Kirthag's voice is evident, and the Darksinger nods slowly coming to some realization.
"Then we shall open the Door, Lady Paladin," her response is almost melodic. "Let us see what is To Be."
The two women place hands upon the door; Kirthag her right hand and the Darksinger her left. The strong, muscular hand of the Celt vibrates with a sort of power that courses through the warrior woman's arm. The Darksinger's slender fingers tremble with the shining forces that seeps through her veins. The door shivers, then lunges against some unseen force within the grains of its ancient wood. Was that a clap of thunder? Did the air just coalesce over the area? What is that wavering in the air?
Then, light as a feather, the door swings back from the women by some unseen force, and disappears without sound.
Hands still resting against the space the door used to occupy, a wave of energy flows through the women, past the threshold, and into the space beyond where the door stood. Within moment, a column of frigid air returns, only to dissipate at the hands of the females, becoming a gentle cold breeze that barely ruffles their hair.
Kirthag lowers her hand first, then her eyes. What is in the room is not for her.
The Darksinger stands still, her hand still raised, but now against nothing. She sighs, a mellifluous sound in the dank hallway - and a soft tone replies from depths of the room. Slowly, as if unsure what she is doing, the Darksinger turns her wrist, stretching her fingers toward the room's interior with a beseeching gesture, her palm upward in the movement. Again, she sighs; or was that a soft hum?
Another tone from the space past the doorway, definitely in the key of G from some stringed instrument... and a small glow as if far away - too far - in what appears to be a small, dark closet.
Suddenly the Darksinger thrusts her hand past the door jamb, fingers outstretched and demanding; she emits an obviously demanding expression of sound. Her voice clear as crystal, resonating a single note that drifts through the area as a force of reckoning, a command, a challenge - and a call.
Kirthag closes her eyes; a tear escaping before she does so.
A matching chord echoes from the space in the room as if in reply. It starts deep, then grows in pitch and volume. Within moments, the Darksinger's voice and the chord are one - a force of sound and energy so as to move the gods themselves (if they would listen). The air crackles, power surges from nothing and yet everything.
Kirthag actually takes a step backward, her mind starting to summon her own powers in case she needs to withdraw to safety. Her thought, "Gods... what have we done?"
Then, just when Kirthag thinks her ears, heart, and soul would burst with the sound, it is gone.
Just one utterance away from summoning her holy light, Kirthag opens here eyes to find herself squinting in the darkness.
"In lor," someone utters softly.
Kirthag can see once again. She blinks, then looks around. Next to her stands a woman of her own height and build, but with the darkest of hair and fairest of skin. This would be her betrayer, enemy, sister. Lark Kohl, who now gently and lovingly holds onto what must be the oldest and most decrepit of lutes in all of Sosaria, smiles softly from beneath her ebon braids.
"I am home sister," Lark's sing-song voice flits with joy. "Your bardess is returned to Sosaria."
