Petrel can be found in the newly erected western camp set up in the plains to the west of the spire's lake. Tall grass has been trampled down to create a little clearing, where tents are stretched over dugouts in a very chimoraa fashion. One can choose to approach him at his tent in the afternoon, at the lake in the evening, or be simply going about their own tasks near the camp or in the wilds where Petrel can ambush them himself.
(Edited 2021-11-22 00:00:00)
Caspian was lured to the area by the promise of uncharted land and the discoveries that might be made here. She was one of many explorers to flood the area, though, and she'd be lying if she said her explorations had uncovered anything noteworthy thus far. Each map she's completed feels like a failure bouncing against her hip. She's never been one for mediocrity.
She's mostly avoided the more well-combed areas, forging her own path through the untouched fields and ruins, skirting the lake and the broken ribs of the Spire. But tonight, she sits beside an oil lamp and balances a half-drawn map on her knees. Easier to chart when she doesn't have to watch her own back, and easier still with a camp full of like-minded explorers to do the watching. She dips one claw in the inkwell beside her, scratching small lines over the page.
"What happens when your hand falters?" Petrel pipes up from behind Caspian's elbow, almost begging to get his nose bashed in. Said nose twitches at the earthy, resinous smell of ink, and his eyes are fixed not on the paper but on the stained black claw of Caspian's hand. Almost as an afterthought, he crooks a grin at the rrex, chin resting on his palm, the supporting hand's elbow crooked into his other crossed arm.
"No choice but to forge onwards, of course! But amended or anew? And how long until perfection? When is perfect perfect enough?"
Caspian chitters in startled displeasure, tails twisting like snakes behind her. Her claw scrapes a sharp, wide line across the shore she'd been charting. She grinds her teeth grimly. Some mistakes can be overlooked; this one is obtrusive enough to warrant a new map entirely. Her narrowed gaze slides to the chimoraa.
She hadn't expected the prophet himself to find her, but she supposes it makes sense that he would. The gossip she's gathered has painted an eccentric picture of him. As she mulls his questions over, she quirks a brow.
"I have but one imperfect hand. I do not fear its faltering. I've faced the dawn before. I will again," she says, furling the parchment with little care for its still-wet ink.
To illustrate her point, she pulls a new scroll from the bag at her hip. She takes longer to consider his latter questions, wonders if they're genuine or idle jabs. Maybe there's no difference when it comes to the young prophet. She bares her teeth in a too-wide, rueful smile.
"A traveler knows when the road ends," she answers wryly, "and I've traveled more than most."
She falls silent for a moment, sizing Petrel up. She has no gift of omniscience, no magic at all. For all Caspian knows, this whelp was guided to her by some preordained fate. Does he rely on his visions? He must, to have declared war on only their potential. What is his sight, but a gilded cage?
"Are you a mirror or a portrait, little prince?" She asks.
Duska had been having an unfortunate time post-search. His plates and bones had a deep-seated itch to them ever since (mostly) recovering from fysa poisoning. His own dreams had been plagued with sea water and the ravenous earth, to say little of the dreams he's seen of other searchers. Prismarisma, his new buddy, had been sticking around lately and seemed to be interested in returning to Ynochrin with him. They were away at the moment, having made vague gestures towards the tent.
Duska, though, was sat by a fire. It was dark out but the light from the flames illuminated the carving knife and small piece of wood in his hands. There he sat, whittling away some sort of figure and trying to ignore the aches of his body as it seemingly changed and recovered. The seat next to him, open and warm.
(Edited 2021-11-25 00:49:12)
"Do you ever think about how roots look like branches?"
Petrel spoke with the confidence of someone who was used to being listened to-- or perhaps, he didn't mind if he was ignored. He raised an eyebrow at Duska as he dropped into the open seat, crossing his short legs over one another and leaning back on one hand.
With his other he gestured into the air, making a reverse grasping motion that might've been like a flower opening or a tree growing.
"Old wisdom says if you unearth a tree and flip it over, its branches turn into roots and its roots turn into branches." He finally actually looked at Duska, expression serious for a rare moment. "But then it spews fysa, instead of cleansing it. Interesting, no?" He glanced the other chimoraa up and down, and clicked his tongue, reaching reluctantly to his hip for a small flask and then holding it out towards Duska.
Petral gave it a few enticing little shakes.
"You look like you could use a drink."
Pausing his carving for a moment, Duska listened intently to Petrel's words. His cousin often spoke cryptically, but Duska enjoyed deciphering the meaning. He was not omniscient like others in his family and it was interesting to get the chance to peer into Petrel's thoughts, at least for a conversation. "Interesting, hm. I wonder if it's actually true." His whiskers twitched at the thought. "Spewing fysa, yeah?"
He peered at the flask being held out to him curiously. He had drank before, sure, but never had Petrel shared his flask with him. With a small grin he gently took the flask from his cousin. "Thank you, I bet I could. The expeditions were a bit rough, not just for me."
Duska opened the flask and took a small sniff of the contents, furrowed his brows in confusion, then promptly shrugged and took a small swig. He shuddered a bit before setting the now closed flask between them and mulling over a thought. " I wonder... Could the spire have been reversed? It's branches become the roots, so to speak?"