Then, she had let that seed of hope, of finding kinship grow unchecked. Now, as her cart dragged by the buttes of Mae'elt tau'chuik, she chided herself for that flight of fancy, that somehow she might meet up with her kinfolk, steal away to the Dutchy of Vem and find herself on a ferry to the Outer Crest. With no one to trust at her side, and an uncertain and barely communicable companion in Cedric, she could not hope to survive outside of her path. Gregor's intended destination for her was unavoidable.
Onion, Vren, knew nothing of the Risen Stone Capital, Pho (Capital City) Boteth (Crags), of Heilth. Try as she might, she could learn very little from Cedric in their pidgin conversations. It was not the first time since her encounter with Gregor's allies that this feeling of linguistic frustration would smolder like Toch'vik. Perhaps it was time to learn this mosquito-tongue.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gregor had lost his moody silence before Onion's lunch had disappeared from her tray, but he had forgotten nothing of his contempt for the mysterious, cloaked man.
"Stay clear from that thing, if you value a decent life. Nothing good can come from a gegleth." he cautioned, his tongue laced with bitter anger.
"What is this person, a gegleth? I am not familiar with that country." she struggled with the exotic sounding word.
Gregor appeared at a loss for words, as if he struggled to turn raw emotion already digested and accepted as fact in his mind, into some form of verbal communication. Better if he could construct some sort of articulate string of nouns and verbs, but perhaps that was expecting too much.
"Women...," he tried, "are not safe around them. They cannot remain themselves for long." he managed.
Onion sensed the underpinnings of his frustration, or at least she through she did, and she let out a brief, coy chuckle.
"I don't know of what you speak, but do not worry. I am a woman of experience. I can handle myself well enough around the opposite sex." she smiled, hoping to reassure him.
Gregor ceased his brooding as he contemplated the Nü before him. He realized how terribly young she truly was. Physically, she might not be much younger than himself, perhaps she had survived twenty or so high tide seasons. Had she been born in Lithen, and shared his own childhood experiences, she would likely have already brought several new souls to this world at her age.
But Vren was not a continental, as Gregor reminded himself. She still carried the sort of cynical naivety that only one certain of their adulthood could maintain. Even though he knew her hair, short brown and bound in two, was an indication among the Nü of a woman of age, it reminded him much of the little girls and boys he played with during his early years.
Gregor had heard of tales that the southern Nü had unnaturally long lifespans; stories of entire tribes where skilled hunters reached the ages of 80 or 90. Those accepted as elders could live as long as 120, using their long earned wisdom to guide the movements of their kin generations younger. Perhaps, he reasoned, because of this their childhoods were also prolonged.
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