Vhalar 35 718
He ran as far as he could, running back and forth across the burho even as other Yari watched sparingly. His lungs were greedy, sucking air in with great bursts, aching in his chest. He pushed harder, legs pumping with high knees until he reached his little slice of paradise, collapsing in front of the door with a crazed expression. The Mad Cat, chasing away his nightmares, as the Yari would say. Mastemyr tried to keep a low profile, but when you’ve lived in the same little hut for almost as long as the city had been standing… well, your existence was at least known of.
And when you struggled with your sanity? Well…
Mastemyr buried his face in a pile of catgrass by the front door, inhaling the sweet scent, face down until the heart in his chest began to slow. Recently, everything had just been so… intense. Tragedy was striking Yaralon in quick succession, with more and more dead washing up on the shores, the level of crisis rich in the city. It made it hard to stay still, overpowering him with its delicious energy. He needed a release or he was going to burst from his skin.
The Mortalborn rolled over, plucking up some blades and chopping down upon them, eventually rising to his feet. Stretching, his legs felt loose from the activity and he turned, dead staring at the glass of his window. He took a step forward, looking past the reflection of his own tanned face at the blonde hair behind him. Smiling at him, the illusion lifted a hand and gave a forlorned wave, the same subtle scars decorating her jaw. A tall woman, strong, salt of the earth.
“Brenna.”
A man mesmerized, he reached out and choked, not noticing how long he had been holding his breath, “Brenna,” he repeated, his face pressed against the pane as if he could reach inside it and stroke her hair after all these years. He ached to smell the smoke on her skin, the taste of iron on her fingertips, “My wife.” She wore her blacksmithing apron; a thin silver chain around her neck.
He purred loudly, eyes open as he pressed his forehead to the cool glass. It looked as if she were laughing but his breath fogged the surface and he was forced to lean back. The Mortalborn waited to admire his long lost love, but when it cleared, she was gone again. No… Instead, something moved now within his house. A figure in a dark coat, stringy hair pulled back into a long ponytail.
Mastemyr bared his teeth, gold eyes flashing at the intruder.
The man turned and Mastemyr noticed the arms that floated beside him. Each bearing a sickle, a scar across his face. There was something haunting and eerie about the feeling, the sound around him suddenly stilling within his mind. Hair rising, Mastemyr jerked back without thought and snatched at the handle to his front door. Blue painted wood was yanked back and he lunged, teeth sharpened and claws ready.
No one was inside.
Strange… He whirled around, storming around to each corner of his tiny home, looking behind doors and under tables. Not a single sign of invasion. He smelled the air, but his own scent dominated this space. Every pot was in order, even his half-eaten breakfast still waited on the counter.
Frustration boiled his blood and after twenty bits of prowling both inside and outside his property, the mad cat eventually settled uneasily in his kitchen, fingernail rapping against the counter in quick succession. The repetitive motion helped distract him, although his mind turned over the thoughts of insanity.
“Am I getting worse?”
This was not an uncommon thought for the man, but his visions had always been inflicted by his own curiosity - a desire to see into the Emean realities of another. Now, even without the use of his powers nothing was ever simple. Idly, he reached for a basket of sunshrooms that had been sitting in a basket on his counter and inspected them. Still fresh, he used some of the water collected from the rain and began to rinse them. The cold water reminded him of home - his other home, in the icy walls of Viden. There they had always rinsed their vegetation, the limited ingredients that they had, but he never knew why. To get rid of dirt, perhaps? The memory was so distant in his mind now, it hardly felt real. He plucked one of the fungi into his mouth, enjoying the savory flavor.
Mastemyr rummaged in his drawer and pulled out a small knife, careful to half the little fungi, images of Brenna still playing in the fading shadows of his memory. Once upon a time, they had cooked together, side by side as they had done all things. Now it was him. Just him, and the reflection of days long gone.
