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Description
Icarion did not do this beause he missed his sister unduly; she had, after all, caused him a multitude of problems before her death. But her last act had been almost a seal of peace, and he had since forgiven her for the earlier meddling. Forgiven, but not forgotten.

No. It wasn't because he wanted his sister. He needed her, because of just that propensity of medling. The situation at hand didn't require a hero, or a trickster. But a witch would be perfectly suited to the task . Tricks and lies and shows of chivalry could only go so far.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Sawdust. Ashes. SAnd. Paper. Ink. Long auburn hair. The musk of a lioness. The down of vulture young. Old parchment filed carefully away. Wildflowers pressed between the pages of a book. Game pieces in red, green, and blue, strewn across the gray stone beneath their feet. Dry laughter from a voice as woody as a clarniet. The delicate scratching of her pencil as she mapped out another vision.

This was the way she would be remembered.

He held steady the memory of her in his mind. Auguri Memorabilia Blaine. A.M.B. Auguri. Grey. His sister.

He recited the words as he had been taught, long ago, in the ancient tongue, his mother tongue. It was in this language his own mother had crooned to him even as she lay dying form the labor. The words hung in the air for some time afer they had been spoken, the echoes subtly ringing.

He took up the smooth clay jar at his feet. The liquid inside washed over on itself, beating against its container - he nearly cringed. But water would call her more than any honeyed nectar or lavish feast. Who knows, she might even appreciate the effort he had exerted over this... WAter from the River Styx itself came at a high price.

"You sacrificd yourself for me," he said aloud. "I cannot wash the blood from my hands... But what I do have, I offer you now."

Before he could think better of it, he poured it out on the ground. A few stray droplets hit his skin with an audible hiss, and he flinched. He forced his hands to remain still. This was much too important to make a mistake. A ghostly vampor rose up all around him; an inrush of wind blew his bright golden-red hair back from his forehead. He could hear the unfolding of wings somewhere near.

He cast his eyes down to the damp red soil, half expecting to see a familiar shape rising from the depths of the earth. But he waited until his legs grew stiff, and she still didn't not come.

A pair of heavy, sharp claws suddenly dug into his flesh. He yelped, starting visibly. "Hey - !" Eyes wide, he slowly turned to see a fearsome bird alighting on his shoulder, broad wings tucked close to its sides. It smelled of rotten meat and dried blood. The fine hairs at the back of his neck stood on end. Those piecing, unnatural eyes...

She let out a derisive shriek. Miss me, little brother?

Description
Icarion did not do this beause he missed his sister unduly; she had, after all, caused him a multitude of problems before her death. But her last act had been almost a seal of peace, and he had since forgiven her for the earlier meddling. Forgiven, but not forgotten.

No. It wasn't because he wanted his sister. He needed her, because of just that propensity of medling. The situation at hand didn't require a hero, or a trickster. But a witch would be perfectly suited to the task . Tricks and lies and shows of chivalry could only go so far.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Sawdust. Ashes. SAnd. Paper. Ink. Long auburn hair. The musk of a lioness. The down of vulture young. Old parchment filed carefully away. Wildflowers pressed between the pages of a book. Game pieces in red, green, and blue, strewn across the gray stone beneath their feet. Dry laughter from a voice as woody as a clarniet. The delicate scratching of her pencil as she mapped out another vision.

This was the way she would be remembered.

He held steady the memory of her in his mind. Auguri Memorabilia Blaine. A.M.B. Auguri. Grey. His sister.

He recited the words as he had been taught, long ago, in the ancient tongue, his mother tongue. It was in this language his own mother had crooned to him even as she lay dying form the labor. The words hung in the air for some time afer they had been spoken, the echoes subtly ringing.

He took up the smooth clay jar at his feet. The liquid inside washed over on itself, beating against its container - he nearly cringed. But water would call her more than any honeyed nectar or lavish feast. Who knows, she might even appreciate the effort he had exerted over this... WAter from the River Styx itself came at a high price.

"You sacrificd yourself for me," he said aloud. "I cannot wash the blood from my hands... But what I do have, I offer you now."

Before he could think better of it, he poured it out on the ground. A few stray droplets hit his skin with an audible hiss, and he flinched. He forced his hands to remain still. This was much too important to make a mistake. A ghostly vampor rose up all around him; an inrush of wind blew his bright golden-red hair back from his forehead. He could hear the unfolding of wings somewhere near.

He cast his eyes down to the damp red soil, half expecting to see a familiar shape rising from the depths of the earth. But he waited until his legs grew stiff, and she still didn't not come.

A pair of heavy, sharp claws suddenly dug into his flesh. He yelped, starting visibly. "Hey - !" Eyes wide, he slowly turned to see a fearsome bird alighting on his shoulder, broad wings tucked close to its sides. It smelled of rotten meat and dried blood. The fine hairs at the back of his neck stood on end. Those piecing, unnatural eyes...

She let out a derisive shriek. Miss me, little brother?