Scene Archives

comes back after an hour or so, cloak off her shoulders and folded into a sack bursting with fruits and, in the hood, cleverly folded so as not to be crushed, are greens. There’s a bit of redness around her eyes, and her lips are a bit chapped, but she calmly sets out her trophies for the others to enjoy: apples, pears, figs, and various sorts of greens, some sweet, some spicy, and some unexpectedly tender.

: “I’ve brought more food,” she announces to the camp. Once she counts that everyone is present, she slides something out of one of the purses tucked into the sash that girds her waist. “I’ve also brought a story.” ⁂

She closes her eyes. Normally, she would have a drum, or some kind of lyre, or a flute–not hers, but whoever were there to keep a beat. She almost asks wolf to play, but she doesn’t. Instead, she kneels before them, sliding something from the purse. It is a mask, pale, uniform. It looks light, and it fits her hands perfectly. “This is the story of the Sword-Saint, which is also the story of she-who-calls-herself Daina, which is also the story of the mask I bear, which is also the story of Badri, who came before me, which is also the story of the palimpsest, which is also the story of how we remember.“ ⁂*

Normally, there would be movement, the swirl of the cloak, maybe the flick of sword, but she is simply still. “There was a time before the mask, but I do not know about that. There was only the time before, and then there was the mask—receptable of memory-story-song, and the ones who have borne it. Anyone can bear it, but only one can bear it at a time. It remembers those who came before, wood or flesh or fur or scale, it remembers the sound of rain and the crackle of fire, the light and the dimness between, it remembers names and places, gods, rivers, children, sweet berries, the smell of death. It remembers and its memories are the Sword-Saint’s, and the Sword-Saint belongs to it.”

: “Daina is not my name, but I do not remember my name. Badri was the Sword-Saint before me, and he was the Sword-Saint for a long time before I beat him in a duel and took up the mask. Before him was—someone who I cannot remember. And before them, someone else, an unbroken line reaching back to the beginning. I do not remember much before I was the Sword-Saint, but after I became the Sword-Saint I traveled Almachadta. I collected stories and I told them. I have been many places. I remember most of them, but I don’t remember them in any order. The mask remembers, but it is like—an onslaught, a bubbling up, tracing roots, maybe. I can ask but I don’t always get an answer.”

: “I asked about Wolf, after I met him. Wolf-of-the-embers, fire-dancer, earth-priest, familiar, almost, as the mask. I asked about the rest of you, but the mask had no knowledge. I asked about the Architect, and the mask did not know him either, but it agreed that there were a wrongness to him—that he didn’t fit.” There is a furrow between her brow when she says, “I have not asked about the Omniclast. I should have.” ⁂

: “And that,” she says, with a little bitterness, “is how I know so much and so very little.” She takes a breath, listening for a sound that isn’t here, and then she looks up at the rest of them, to gauge their reactions. 🙧

chews on that for a few minutes, rolling over the story in his head a few times before he eventually lets out a quiet like. “You were… worried we be upset about this? Perhaps you’re a more silly person than I thought. But at anyrate… So, that’s like… an artifact for memory storage and transfer? I can’t imagine you know how it works but… huh. How odd. And you communicate with it, so it’s kind of like…” He eventually trails off, not actually sure how put that final thoughts into words he’d understand, much less anyone else without his specific background.

.

looked relieved, when she came back, a fraction of tension releasing from his shoulders. When the Saint begins to speak, his fingers brush his flute–but they retreat when she makes no motion of request. Instead, he listens, leaning in as if listening with his whole body, wolf-green eyes intent. He hums, perhaps unconsciously, a gentle drone beneath the words that rises and falls with her meter. Once–as she mentions his name–he closes his eyes, humming guttering to silence before rising up again as she moves on. ⁂

: “I remember now,” he says. “Though until you started speaking I did not, and now I cannot think how I did not. Well do I know the stories of the Sword-Saint, memory-keeper, story-speaker.” He smiles faintly. “We have met, I think, though I cannot tell you how. The mask I remember, the rest I cannot. But I have fought alongside the Saint before, I think. Or against them? Or both. It is…difficult.” ⁂

looks at Daina intently, though not ungently. “Why do you speak of this now, my friend?”

🙧

lies on his right side, head propped up by his arm. “So much as you are Daina, so too are you the Sword-Saint!” He waves his other hand. “You carry two storied histories, just that one remembers much more than the other, at present.”

: “Do you see it as such? Is who you were before the mask, important?” he asks, staring.

: “No. Who I was before the mask isn’t important at all,” she says, barely glancing at the Awoken before looking at Wolf. “I had intended to tell you anyway, back in the Sanctuary. Since we are apparently faced with–since our world is–” she makes a small noise of frustration. “Considering what we’re facing, it seemed best to be clear about all the resources available to us. The memories I carry might be one such resource.” […]

: “And yes, Aurelius, I was worried how a group of amnesiacs might feel about someone remembering when they did not, considering I didn’t know you.” Her tone is a little sharp, and when she next speaks one gets the sense she might be smoothing it out. “And the mask isn’t–it’s not as if it’s just a very large codex. It isn’t just about … storage, or transfer, much like the Rite isn’t just about fighting.” 🙧

: “All the more reason to not care what a bunch of strangers think, I’d think, but then again I am not you. Sorry if either comment caused any offense, it wasn’t intended. Hmm. But right, it’s about a shared history and perspective of a part of the world. A living artifact of some kind…” Aurelius taps at his chin a few times, before placing a hand on the Awoken’s head and leaning against it. “Also cards on the table, I have been insinuating I don’t remember anything, but that is… strictly speaking not the case. It is, however, still true to a degree. It’s complicated. I can say with certainly I know one of the deepest, darkest secrets of the world… the worlds… but I don’t think I can really elaborate at this point in time.”

: “It’s also probably not important, in the grand scheme of things.” He adds a moment later, as an after thought.

slooowly turns his head to look at Aurelius, at that. One eyebrow arches up, slightly–then the other follows it not long after. When more is not forthcoming, he…shrugs? With his eyebrows? The expression version of ‘ohhh…kay.’ And turns his attention back to Daina.

“I feel I must apologize, myself. I did not…” His words stumble off, for the first time since returning to his world. “If I had not said it then, I could not have said it. But it was badly done.”

gazes intently at the mask as he sits listening to Daina’s tale, clearly torn between his curiosity on how it functions and wanting to respect her most treasured belonging. “Thank you for sharing this with us. And while your sensitivity to our reactions may have ultimately been misplaced, it’s appreciated nonetheless. If I may ask, do you have a sense of how far back ‘the beginning’ is? Not necessarily in time, though that would be interesting if you know it. But do you mean the beginning of the existence of the mask? Of the world itself? Perhaps something even older?” His speech remains even but his fingers begin to curl slightly on the stump he’s sitting on, as if restraining his excitement and questioning requires physical effort.

looks at Aurelius for a solid while, unable to hide the wild smile on his face, and for a moment his lips move like he may say something… but the moment passes in silence. He turns back to look at the Sword-Saint.

To Wolf, Daina musters a smile–a small one, a flicker, maybe a seed. “It wasn’t badly done. It was necessary.” And then to Archie she shakes her head. “After about fifty generations the mask stops remembering clearly. There’s more, but it’s a … palimpsest. The past scraped away to make room for more pressing information.”

She stifles a yawn, and rolls her shoulders. “I think I need to rest now, but I can answer more questions in the morning. Thank you for listening.”