184. Sleepless in Dawnwick

It was around the time of her first meal that Serac began to feel the length of a Tidereign Day.

"I'm tired more than hungry," she complained to no one in particular, though Travertine was the only one within earshot. "Aren't you tired?"

One look at the deer man told her all she needed to know. Travertine was dour-faced at the best of times, yet now—some 20 hours into their Day together—he looked positively gaunt with exhaustion. Dark shadows framed his slitted stag eyes to give them an embattled, almost anxious quality. The craziest thing, at least in Serac's mind, was the current cycle wasn't even a quarter of the way spent.

Presently, the two detectives sat at the far end of a rectangular table that stretched the whole length of a building. They were at one of the refectories Travertine had mentioned: outposts scattered throughout Dawnwick where Templars could rest, refresh, and grab a bite should the mood strike. The windows here were large and open, allowing plenty of street noise and outside light to spill in. As for the light, there was plenty of it. 20 hours into the Day, the sun was still out in full force, drenching the entire world in bright-sepia dye.

Serac blinked heavy eyelids against the blistering daylight. She forced herself to take another bite of the plain porridge she'd been served. Bland and lumpy. The only interesting thing about it was the water it'd been cooked in—velvety texture with a subtle sweetness. But that wasn't nearly enough to salvage the porridge as a whole. Serac had been wrong to hope Tidereigners had anything on Pretjordians when it came to the culinary arts.

"Wait a second," she suddenly piped up, having given up on making more inroads into the porridge, "why can't I get some shuteye? We're not in any rush, are we? I mean, for gods' sake, we've still got sixty-odd hours left in the Day. Would you mind terribly if I just took a nap right now?"

Travertine blinked at her slowly. Whether in confusion or due to exhaustion, it was hard to tell.

"Take a nap? You? Do I understand your question correctly?"

Serac frowned, both in confusion and due to exhaustion.

"Yeah. What else would I be asking?"

Another beat, then Travertine nodded as if he understood.

"You may try."

It's that easy? I should've asked sooner! Serac dove right in before Travertine could change his mind. She leaned back in her seat and put her hooded head against the refectory's clay wall. Things were a little toasty in the persistent sun, but the heat was offset by the breeze from the open windows. Nothing a hell-bred Rakshasa couldn't fall asleep to.

Except… she couldn't. Her lids were heavy, body sore, and mind worn out beyond belief. Yet, despite Serac's overwhelming fatigue, sleep simply refused to take her. Indeed, she'd never before felt more awake than right this Ksana, as she tried to get some shuteye in the middle of a Tidereign Day.

"An outrealmer you may be," Travertine interrupted her futile attempt, taking a small bite of porridge as he did, "but you're still a sentient soul who's folded herself into the Gloam. Fawns before their oathing age may 'nap' on their own accord. Animals, including our [Bound] Oathborns, may also rest in our stead. But not us. We must serve the Keeper and honor our [Oaths] with every waking hour of the Day."

"You've got to be joking!" Serac blurted, very nearly angry with Travertine and indeed the whole Realm. She then adjusted her tone to be somewhat more culturally sensitive. "But… doesn't that get incredibly tiring? Day after Day of staying awake for, well, almost four days? How do you guys do it?"

'How do you stay sane?' was what Serac really wanted to ask. The message seemed to get across anyway, as Travertine cracked one of his rare smiles.

"We manage the best we can. I suppose our [Oaths] have much to do with it. A task-oriented Mriga is also resilient against idle fancies or, even worse, apathy. As long as we all stay focused on our calling, whatever it might be, we can reliably avoid breaches and make the most of each and every Day."

If Serac were still a hell bumpkin, she might've taken Travertine's spiel at face value and even admired the Mrigas for their rigor and discipline. But the Serac with two ascensions under her belt had met too many souls and seen too much shit to be so easily taken in.

Her eyes wandered toward the opposite end of the room, to fall upon the kitchen next to the entrance. Even now, a deer woman (with her antlers covered by a supersized cap) stood primly by a large pot of porridge. Occasionally, the woman would break her posture to give the pot a stir, then go right back to her silent vigil.

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Serac reflected on everything she'd seen so far in Dawnwick. From the farmers to the cooks to the vendors to the street sweepers. Everyone here had a role and everyone put their heads down and did their thing. In fact, perhaps the hardest-working and most dedicated example was sitting across from her right now, scowling at his bowl of porridge as he no doubt weighed his next move in 'protecting the herd'.

But… that can't be all there is to the afterlife, can it? Don't these souls ever have some fun? Try something new or adventurous?

Even as she pondered the question, Serac remembered someone—a couple of Mrigas, in fact—who'd done both. A very much frowned-upon tryst between a Templar and a farm girl under his protection. Peridot and Drumlin would've been a breath of fresh air in an otherwise stuffy oath-fest…

Were it not for one of them getting gruesomely murdered for his trouble, leaving the other to grieve the loss for 88 hours! Perhaps there was something to be said for keeping on the straight and narrow. Perhaps it was a good thing Peridot had her rigor and discipline to focus on for the rest of the Day…

Serac's consternation must've shown plainly on her face. Travertine, still faintly smiling, peered in to offer an addendum.

"It's not as dire as an outrealmer like you might imagine. In fact, things in Dawnwick have gotten considerably more pleasant of late… ever since Bishop Hanafin has come through the ranks of the Order."

Serac lifted her hood slightly to study her partner's face. Travertine's half-smile-half-scowl had barely changed, but the timbre of his speech certainly had. The rumbling baritone had taken on an almost rhythmic bounce, perhaps in anticipation of another voice of a higher, softer register.

"Jas—ahem—Sister Hanafin works exclusively from inside the Temple atop Veilwatch Hill. For that is where her Instrument and Oathborns are most effective and influential. She's the reason we Day-siders rise with each Dawn bright-eyed and sure-footed. She's given all of us something to look forward to at the end of each Day as we wind down for Dusk."

Serac could hardly believe it. She'd known this man for all of 20 hours, and yet, she never would've guessed him capable of such soft-eyed admiration—such open affection! Just who was this Sister Hanafin to have made dour-faced, scowling Travertine so obviously besotted with her?

This I gotta see. She tried and failed to hide a smirk. In fact, I can't even wait. I gotta know right away…

"Tell me more," she blurted again, no longer bothering to police her tone.

"About her magic? Well, it's something of a—"

"No! Will you just, for one Ksana, forget about magic and [Oaths] and Wayfaring? I wanna know about Sister Hanafin the person. Is she nice? Funny? What does she look like?"

At this, a visible flush shone through Travertine's hairy face. He looked genuinely discomfited. Which was saying something, considering the utter nonchalance with which the man had inspected and handled mutilated corpses earlier this Morning.

"Is—is she nice?" he stammered. Yet another feat Serac didn't know him to be capable of. "I—I suppose she's… ahem."

Another cough, then Travertine fell silent again. Looking at him, Serac came to a sudden realization, along with a cringe-inducing pang of sympathy. He's trying to give a sincere answer, and he can't, because he doesn't know! For whatever reason, he hasn't spent enough time with this Hanafin lady to know what she's really like as a person…

"She's… a charming young woman." Travertine changed tack in an apparent effort to stick to what he knew. "She's been an Oathkeeper for no more than a handful of years, which makes what she does all the more remarkable. As for what she looks like… I suppose she's slender, with a white-spotted coat. Her features… breathtakingly beautiful—like the Keeper itself had dreamt her up."

As Serac listened, her eyes grew wider and wider. In fact, she was so shocked she forgot to cringe! Wait a second. Why does this description sound so…

"If—if I were to paint her face with my meager words, it's as a rose—"

That was when the door to the refectory swung open, and in marched some new customers.

Travertine stopped mid-description, then his eyes too widened as they fell upon the newcomers. Serac failed to suppress a tsk of annoyance, but she nonetheless followed her partner's gaze.

A trio of Mriga men. They dressed similarly to Travertine, except their attires leaned more ceremonial robe and less hunting suit. At first, they all had their backs turned to Serac, as they received bowls of porridge from the kitchen maid. As they turned around, however, Serac saw and recognized a clear power dynamic.

The shortest man among the trio (also the one with the least impressive set of antlers) was dressed differently. Robe of elegant purple with silver embroidery, where the others were olive and plain. He was clearly the 'leader' of the group; his companions flanked him on either side at an appropriately reverent distance.

And Serac soon saw why, as she scanned the boss man with Pathsight.

[Designation: REALGAR aft'ENRIGHT—Viceroy of Dawnwick]

[Wayfarer Race: MRIGA]

[Karmic Level: 55]

[Liminal Karma: 0 क]

[PRIMAL Instrument: HIEROPHANT]

[Oathborn: THE HERD]

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