Smolder

::: subchapter "Silent winds, my friend," said Hinte as she turned, waving her tail. While she appreciated Kinri's help in the lake, she breathed relief at parting ways with her. The exile had no appreciation of the thoughtful silence, always annoying her with unhatched questions. But worse, she acted utterly apterous when she opted not to ask questions. As if her tongue were rubber and her frills were stone. There were worse issues, however. Such as Hinte deciding to carry back all of those apes. When she should have known the inquirers would return regardless, when she should have known the weight would have her helpless to fly. Or that it would put her at the mercy of those rockwraiths Kinri had doubtless stirred up. Hinte wasn't helpless. The apes had escaped because of her tonguelessness. If she had tied them down better, if she had ensured they held no surprises, if she had thought to remove their weapons, if she had brought more emergency mixtures, that incident could have been avoided. She was better than this. These were hatchling mistakes, and she did not have the exile's excuse of being a hatchly sifter. Her Dozent would be disappointed. The dark-green wiver fell back on her hindlegs, crouched tensely, prepared to take off. Then, she remembered. Apterous rockwraiths. Could she exact a proper revenge on them? In the academy, she learned of the alchemical plague that had eliminated the arboreal songwraiths from the forests. She wondered if her Opa or her Dozent knew anything about it. She swatted her dark frills at the thought. Nothing for it, right now. More pressing would be defending herself better. Her Dozent's knife wouldn't suffice, even if she still had it. That left alchemical tricks, and Opa would know plenty. And she knew which she wanted; she'd dreamt of it since Academy. As she crossed the canal and entered the clean and empty west side, Hinte took off her cloak. She bristled her freed wings, felt the punctures nimbly mending. The cloak was an embrace or shield, but she didn't need it at night, on the west side of town. Elsewhere, however? Even long after the Inquiry, a grain of suspicion regarding alchemists ran through the town. Their work, of course, was accepted. Most of the town ignored or forgot rumors of Ushra's return, but the Gären name itself wore alchemical connotations, even outside the forests. And treasonous connotations because of grandmother. And so, she did not garner friends, or even friendliness. Even above the... unsavory reputation of forest-dwellers themselves. Ushra had not helped that. Besides being the sole surviving alchemist from before the Inquiry, besides being older than Gwymr/Frina⁠ ⁠---⁠ older than Dwylla⁠ ⁠---⁠ yet still living, Ushra was a surgeon. You did not become surgeon without being well-acquainted with dragon anatomy and physiology, with corpses and cadavers. It offended the frilly religion of the cliffs. While their offense fledged an ashy sort of sense, it did not fly. Nothingness awaited you after you alighted. Corpses were sacks of flesh that would only turn to rot and dust. The cliff-dwellers, however, insisted that your body acted as a vessel, that on death some distillate would evaporate out toward some life-after-life. If you believed that, then of course you would protect your corpses from science and medicine. And if, despite that effort, someone had gained enough familiarity to perform surgery? Ushra had studied and invented die Wundervernarbung before the war, before there was a overabundance of listless, lifeless bodies. Even then, there had not been a shortage of cadavers; but there had not been a shortage of fledgling anatomists and surgeons, either. The academy had a system, and if a student needed extra cadavers for further research, there were forms to fill out, intervals to wait. Ushra's mind worked faster than that. Whether it was for practicing surgery, or perfecting a flesh regenerating formula, there was suspicion against anyone possessing a skill that required intimacy with dragon physiology. Why? They robbed graves. Those days had long landed for him, Ushra had said. Now that he once again acted as head alchemist of Gwymr/Frina, he did not want for cadavers. But, he had continued, it would be a shame for you to lack those skills should you ever need to travel abroad. Traveling abroad. The world held a number of alluring sounds and smells. As a Gären, even unmoored from the forests, she did not want for money to spend or gyras to live. But would she ever follow that trail? Her Dozent, her grandparents, even Digrif and Kinri all lived in the cliffs. Was there any cause to leave? She flexed her wings, and tasted welcomed salt on her fangs. Apterous rockwraiths. The walk home was slow. She moved like a tortoise, unable to fly, only able to inch forward, step after step after step. The pace gave her time to macerate in the events of the day. Her jaw was mouthing the words that had set everything in motion. "Have you found them?" She'd lighted on her Dozent's map and his calculations. She'd confronted him like this, and he'd answered, his eyes never leaving his bottle, saying, "Yes, I found⁠ ⁠---⁠ something. In the dustone cliffs. At long last, ha." But why did his tone sound so hopeless? "Let me go investigate, I will taste whatever is there." "It's been a fruitless search for so long." It hadn't sounded like he was talking to her. "It would turn out no different." "Then I will bring someone. With two tongues, I will find them." "So assured. If you catch them, pry at the shadows, then this whole crooked tapestry unravels." He licked his eyes, and his tongue hung in the air for a beat. "Let me sleep, hatchling. We have two days⁠ ⁠---⁠ and you wouldn't let me rest till then, would you?" Her Dozent had never told her the full extent of his mission, never even told her who 'they' were. She had her guesses⁠ ⁠---⁠ that Wrang character; and perhaps even the rod-twirler and the angry guard Ffrom. But Wrang stood more centrally; he catalyzed this somehow, she knew. He had smelled of sour metal and ozone, and she knew exactly what magic smelled like. Whoever it was, her Dozent had been right. Someone was using the apes. Hinte'd solved that problem. She only wished Dozent's solution didn't leave her claws dripping. But there was no guilt in justice; and there was no loss in justice, either⁠ ⁠---⁠ only gain. Only gain. And now, with the threat of war on the horizon, she found her gaze searching that star-splattered sky above. What had he meant with his words? The whole crooked tapestry unravels. Staring up the sky, Hinte's dark frills folded back. More than once Kinri had dragged her out in the southern cliffs, to 'gaze at the stars.' As if there were anything worth seeing in the mess of diminutive suns that hid from the luminous lovers, who far outshone any offering of the night. The exile, whose night-blue face looked as messy with silver scales as the sky above, she could tell you everything and more about any of those stars. How they were indispensable for navigating high in the sky over days and days of anonymous ocean, or how they were moving and you could see it if you built a telescope the size of a house. Kinri had said the stars watched you no matter how far you went. What vast tapestray had to come undone to leave that cluttered mess of little runt suns up there? Hinte swatted her frills. It never had. Hinte spread her frills and brought her gaze back to the earth. The stars were nothing. Blind and silent. She wouldn't have time for such pointless musings if she could fly. Apterous. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ::: ::: subchapter Hinte did reach her home. As she stepped from the gravelly lapilli to the soft, loamy soil, she felt at home on two levels. If you clouded your eyes and held your tongue, you could pretend you never left, never had to leave the forests. Hinte could almost forget what happened, why she now lived with her grandparents. She was very still. When the dark-green wiver cleared her eyes the illusion broke, as it should. The house stood before her, one story tall, not unlike a traditional Teif/Günstig house. Yet it lay on the ground, a departure. The neighborhood itself lay in a basin of sorts, a distance from any canyon walls, which had dragged any choice from them. Ahead, the looming shapes of trees and other plants writhed in the wind and shadows. It felt welcoming in a way the red and amber lamps of Gwymr/Frina never had. The dark-green wiver strode toward the house in a high walk, ignoring the ache in her legs. The Gären estate had a wide and raised porch, fit for landing. At the moment, Hinte appreciated instead that she could climb onto the porch. Apterous. Hinte eyed the walls of the house as she marched toward the door. The windows sat narrowed in the cute slit design of the forests. In those windows lay glass, another departure, something that was, in the forests, a luxury. But they lived in Gwymr/Frina now, where glass sold like brick. The walls, however, were built of wood, something that had traded places with glass as a luxury. It had slacked her tongue, seeing so many houses built of scoria or even stranger stones. The town had houses built of dustone or fire clay, too. But those were just sad. She gave the windows another glance. Light was slinking out from breaks in the dark curtains; Hinte didn't give herself time to groan. Before she stepped onto the porch she had stripped out of her sifting suit and scraped the largest chunks of glass from her legs. If you flicked, you could still taste she'd been sifting. Ushra would. But Hinte pulled out again her cloak, covered it all up. She would step into her room before anyone had time to wave their tongues. The short, wide door lay before her. It opened inward and its handle perched on the right edge. She glanced at the keyhole just below. Falling to her hindlegs, the dar