Quote Originally Posted by Raz_Fox View Post
"Kalandor!" Fayruz quickly rose and was across the tent in a moment, throwing her arms around him. "It's so wonderful to see you again, brother! Have you met any others? Haramhold sent me a message, and Faden; oh, Faden lives to the north, across the sea! Have you met any of the others? Are they safe?" Then, suddenly, she reached up and let her hand caress his face, pulling his gaze to meet her eyes. "You found yourself," she said, softly, almost in awe. "I knew... I knew Faden had, and surely Haramhold, but, well, I didn't get to talk to them... you have found yourself, and you're the dust on the paths between the camps, and the beating of the horses' hooves on the rocks..." She shook her head with a smile. "Listen to me... I'm just so happy to see you here, brother. Please, wait just a moment, there are people here who still need my help."

Once the fevers were cured, through the application of Fayruz's power - which she wielded, as she always did, with wordless songs that had come straight from the White City, unconsciously, as she laid her hands on the sick and feverish - she invited her brother to eat with her in the great tent that the Fayheran had erected for her, looking out over the river of the Olm. There would not be too much to eat, true, but with her brother here, Fayruz would give what little there was eagerly.

Fayruz herself was, well, much different than when Kalandor had seen her last. She was still beautiful, when she pulled down her roughly-stitched mask and pulled back her hood, letting her dark curls fall loosely down her dust-covered robe and all about her still-pale face, but it was the way she'd moved that betrayed her growth the most. Fayruz, while in the White City, had moved with either cheerful innocence or, when she was sad or worried, hesitance. She would gingerly step here and there, fragile and pale, until she saw a chance to cheer her siblings up. Now, she moved with confidence, smooth and regal, self-assured.

Her eyes, too they would have been the first thing Kalandor saw, while she was masked and hooded like the men of the rocklands. They were leonine, golden and bright, the eyes of a princess. And, when she saw him, they had widened in overjoyed recognition, showing clearly her delight at seeing her brother. But, in them, there was a glint of power restrained and kept firmly controlled, strength that Fayruz wielded with the utmost grace. Make no mistake, she was as much a divinity as her brothers and sisters, even if she acted with humility and quiet love rather than extravagantly displaying her power.

Two men accompanied her, almost protectively. One was as tall as her, but strongly-built, wrapped in pale robes; a sling and pouch hung from his crude rope belt, and he had the stance and eyes of a warrior, and a weathered face. When Kalandor had arrived, he had been busy offering water from a clay basin to those cured of fever by Fayruz, his mask and hood lowered within the tent; he had, once Fayruz embraced her brother, risen and greeted him as well. He smiled little, but gave Kalandor a nod of approval and a quiet word of welcome, his voice low and steady.

The second was tall and thin, built like their brother Llassar, and he had neither mask or hood, something that was to the people of the rocklands distinctly feminine. What made his refusal even more curious was that something had done a very credible job of ripping his face off, with deep gouges still visible, slashing across his temple in three long lines down to his jaw, cutting open his nose and lips. It's a wonder that he hadn't been blinded by whatever had attempted to destroy his face. His eyes were half-lidded in a permanent state of disdain or foolishness, the remnants of old wounds still visible on his lids, and his grin when Kalandor was introduced was a wide and disturbingly sharp thing. When he called Kalandor a man of his liking, grasping his shoulder tightly and giving it a shake, his voice was scratchy and hoarse, but exuberant nonetheless.

But, it was obvious, both had a deep attachment to Fayruz. Had Kalandor been some assassin sent by the darkness that had destroyed the White City, the way the two acted hinted that they would not let him lay a hand on Fayruz until they were both dead. Beyond that, they were as different as night and day the soldier was a man of few quiet words, while the scarred man would happily talk for him in his scratched voice; the soldier seemed measured and careful in his actions, while the scarred man was careless and gangly, as if trusting that fate would guide his hands; the soldier was quiet and sober, a man of deep emotions shown seldom, while the scarred man was easily provoked into laughter or a wide grin.

It was quite obvious to see that, while Fayruz's people still struggled, and Fayruz herself was pale with constant exertion on behalf of her people, keeping them safe from sickness and injury in a hostile world, she was still quite happy here, and safe. Looking at her, it was quite easy to believe that she would do her best to remake the White City among mortalkind, and one could almost believe it when she smiled, and her golden eyes glowed for a moment.

Kalandor would get along well with both men he decided, and agreed internally that Fayruz had found her place on The Disk.

While Fayruz had beautiful golden eyes and skin that would look fair if not for the pallor bought by the exherstion, Kalandor, in the form he now called his own, was very much the opposite. He was not the handsome of pure testosterone, his hear was a dirty brown and the only care it apeared to have was fingers through it to remove knots, and his eyes were a dark brown, but nothing special, even with the few faint green specs in them. His skin was tanned, but not muscled, any muscles seeming to have a coat of fat hiding them. His face, unwrinkled and unmarred shone with youthful exerberance, while his eyes showed knowledge of someone who should have vast crevaces in their face, caused by wrinkles, as much a juxtaposition as the two that guarded Fayruz. His clothes were simple, a leather shirt with long leather pants, almost like armour, but not leather plates, and they were completely unardorned, with his boot bearing much dust. His staff, which now never left his side, looked every bit like a sheperds crock, with a thick spiraling head attached to the stout staff. He looked completely out of place in his clothes, and only an underlying sixth sense lent any feel he was a divine.

Kalandor would follow with Fayruz, lending her what aid he could, but his skill being merely little better than traveller cures, for the what if trouble happens on the trail, he mostly watches, occasionally asking questions as to how she effects certain cures. Otherwise he converses with her guards, and waits while she works.