Chasing the Dark

"Eluna. The light to the sstars, the gateway to the heavens. ...does your light shine upon the hells, I wonder?" Such philosophic drivel comes from the muzzle of the draconic, who makes his way down said temple's stairs, and past its phase-marked pillars. He wears a kilt of the People, edged in blues and grays. The scabbard he grasps in his hand would be better served tied to a hip--but he waves it about as one might a cane.

He pauses after speaking, and looks up at the stars. Snorts. "Blunted as you are by City lights. I suppose it does not matter."

"Come back here!"

The sound of gentle musing is somewhat over-written by the sound of someone calling. It's not a yell exactly, but more a slightly exasperated raising of the voice. Then from the darkness comes a man clad in dark clothing himself. He seems after something, but that something is lost to the winds and the darkness itself. He stops somewhat close to the sith-makar and suddenly there's a falling of feathers as a raven quite unexpectedly lands before them both and hops. It shivers its feathers and the dark-haired man gives the raven a short look. "You would not be cold if you but listened to me and remained indoors."

He turns his gaze on the Sith-makar. "Please forgive us both, if we have been in your way."

"No, you are coming up all of the sudden. And /now/ you are in my way," the draconic growls. He turns just enough to look akant towards the softskin.

Tense quiet.

A shiver of scales. A faint rattle of the spine from head to serpentine tail.

"But it is hard to see, I...could understand. I...peace to your nest, softskin." Graciousness. Such graciousness exudes from the figure, one might as well be a noble, or some other gracious host caught upon the balcony.

Karasu seems to take the measure of the sith for a moment, clearly weighing the other for a moment. Then bows to him very politely and very low before making a motion towards Wuya that the raven entirely ignores. Well not entirely. He caws and flaps his feathers as though trying to keep warm. "Peace to your nest as well." Karasu nods once more to the sith, seemingly willing to be on his way though his familiar seems not to be.

The draconic leans back. Shockface, that but of course, one does not SHOW shockface. One nods after a time, as though such reactions are accepted. Expected, even.

"...hrmph. Well, it is a touch cold, is it then?" he asks eventually, with a glance towards the bird. "Atleti, of the...warrior caste."

The dark-haired man's lips flicker. Not a smile, not exactly, but perhaps a little bit pleased. It's hard to tell. The bird seems satisfied to just sit there now, watching the pair of them with seemingly great interest. "I am Karasu, and this is Wuya." He motions to Wuya, who of course is the raven whom being introduced bobs his head and finally flies to Karasu's shoulder where he nuzzles in for warmth. There's a space for him right in the tall neck of Karasu's coat. As though it's been built for this specific purpose.

"...sshaman-caste?" the draconic asks, and then the edges of the muzzle turn downwards, promptly, after asking. Before that is...smoothed away.

"One only wondered," he adds, with a nod towards the bird. The hand holding the scabbard lowers--the silver lining glints faintly, ghostlike, in the evendusk. "But outside Eluna's one, perhaps..."

"I believe that is how I might be called." Karasu seems to think on it just the same, lifting a hand somewhat absently to touch Wuya. Ensuring that the raven hadn't foolishly frozen himself. The bird coos and Karasu leaves him alone thereafter. "I follow in Vardama's steps myself, such is the teachings of life." He's a hard read, but some emotion flickers through his dark eyes. There and then gone in a flash.

"A pleasure to meet one who honors the Ghost Singing Dragon. The People make much of Her. I've heard it said She is the silent Third of the Sacred Green--surrounded by the Hunter, the Earth, and then the Grave, below."

Atleti adjusts his grip on the scabbard, and then begins to replace it about his waist. The belt clinks, faintly--but otherwise slips into place. Softened leather.

Karasu nods sagely, agreeing with Atleti's words. "I have always thought that your name for Her is a good one. The Death Singing Dragon. Those who answer Her siren call are greeted by the other side." His gaze is distant suddenly, taking in the blackness. Tiny flakes of snow catch in his dark hair like stars. Quick to melt; there and gone. "Do you honor the moon then, and Eluna's fair dance?"

"Is not everything powerful worthy of praise?" Atleti asks, and looks up with something like a smirk. Like a smile. He tightens the belt, and affixes the buckles into place.

Gives it a quick shake, to test.

"Of coursse I praise Her. Though Sshe hides, tonight." A look skywards, towards the near-lack of stars.

"I should think not. Lest we praise devils and demons as well." Karasu's counter is a gentle one however, no bite behind it. More gentle reminder. "There is strength in many shapes, but your wayward mistress is one whom I might find worthy of kind words." His expression softens as he looks at the sky. "Though perhaps I might not always have."

"Wayward...that is one word for it. I might have said hidden, or were one a poet--" and the sith-makar gestures towards the dark sky. "--She hides in contemplation, after her recent strike. Or perhaps the Shadows threaten to overtake her--once and for all."

"...perhaps we look at a projection of Taara's desperate dream," he says, and smirks as he looks towards the darkened dome. And back again. "Wouldn't /that/ be a battle?"

Finally Karasu's eyes fall from that darkened sky and he shakes his head perhaps a touch regretfully. "I am no poet, nor a writer to offer such flowery words. It seems I must leave such things in more capable hands. Such as your own? You seem to have a touch for such things."

"Everyone suffers their hidden talents. I'm sure you've many as well. Listening," the scaled says, and casts a look towards the darkened sky. The breath forms clouds in the cold, obscuring such detail as might be had--in the dead of night.

"And warriors are no poets, sshaman. Poets of blood, perhaps. Poets of--go away," Atleti says suddenly, and looks downwards, towards the street.

Karasu seems about to disagree, words on the very edge of his lips and then Atleti tells him to go and he bows his head to the sith-makar. "As you will. It was fine to speak with a wordsmith such as yourself, even if you dare not call yourself a poet." He lifts a hand as he turns, to cover Wuya from the snow.

"..." the warrior raises his hand to see the man go, though he continues to stare--at a point on the street. A smudge of shadow, lined in white.

The breath from the muzzle mists and smokes--it curls overhead, and strikes the faint moonlight coming from Eluna's pillars. And it is with that same slowness that the shadow--that smudge upon the cobbles--moves.

Then, moves more quickly. It /skitters/, vanishing behind the pillars of the temple. Atleti's stare follows it, the scowl growing deeper, and fang'd.

Perhaps he hadn't meant Karasu. Perhaps. But whatever that is...if it is, indeed, a thing. There was only the quick, silent movement. No sound. Nothing.

One can not-quite hear the crickets, coming from that shadowed direction. 'Mad-man' they might say. 'Mad-man.'

It is hard to say if Karasu catches the sight of the shadow moving or not. Certainly he pauses briefly at the raised hand. His eyes flicker to the moving shadow, but he continues on his way. There's a puff of white from his breath as he moves, as he walks into the darkness. A low rumble of not-quite words. Wuya is having none of it though, and Karasu's familiar lifts from his rest in a burst of feathers and sound, taking after the shadow as if this is the very thing that brought the bird out into the night. Karasu sighs, but nods. "It seems we chase demons in the night. Fare you well." He murmurs a farewell to Atleti as he moves quickly past - not quite running.

Whatever the bird encounters--a pair of staring, beady eyes that size him up with the mischievousness of the tiniest of honey badgers. A fursnake. A smallish being with tiny claws and pale mask.

It stares at the bird and bares its small teeth in a chittering chuckle.

...a sound quickly overpowered by the stomp of feet. The clasp of claws. Atleti comes 'round the pillar, and the--creature runs away. Another smudge of shadow. Perhaps. A wink towards the bird.

"..." ...and Atleti looks at the bird. He raises a ridged brow, and looks off to the shadows himself, as though to say: Well.

Well.

That's that.

-End