The ability to soul read was a rare, yet not unheard of talent in the world of Eora. As one may be born able to sing as the songbirds, or calculate unfathomable numbers in mere moments, Lys was able to decipher a person's inner essence. To her, the soul of a living being manifested as a spectral aura, swirling with iridescent hues that glittered like the dust of stars. Some were brighter, others wavering, but each unique. By reading a person's essence Lys could see the crystallised consciousness, memories and personality of the owner, and even deeper; the spirits of the past lives lived by the soul. Every soul was a story, waiting for Lys to only pay it the mind. Ordinarily, Lys cherished any opportunity to use her gifts; she found delving into unsuspecting souls of those nearby thrilling, as if peering into a stranger's window, yet now she only found it vexing. The other travellers were unaware of how their souls pressed in on her, vying for attention with shifting hues, and the journey through Drywood had seen her in their company with no relief of solidarity. She'd begun to feel the strain weigh behind her almond eyes and she pinched the bridge of her nose with silent frustration as the wagon shuddered over rocky terrain. Suld, an Orlan who'd set out from the grand empire of Aedyr alongside Lys, recognises her friend's pain. As an Orlan, Suld's stood at the height of a human child. Ashen fur, streaked with shades of earthen red, covered the whole of her body, even extending over her face and nose. Her ears were that of a doe, though wilder and hairier. The longer tufts of hair around her face were braided with beads of adra gemstone and the carved teeth of her finer kills. Her battle-weary armour had long lost its gleam, not unlike the two hatchets affixed to her belt, the unvarnished handles of which were stained with the brownish hue of old blood. Her golden, feline-like eyes flashed wildly as she looked up at Lys.
"Want me to kill them all?" She hissed in a low tone, breaking the silence within the wagon and earning her the hateful glare of a handful of travellers; a reaction Suld had undoubtedly been fishing for.
"You threatening us, feral?" A gruff-looking man spat. In turn, Suld lean forward, flashing her jagged teeth.
"This is a threat, furless; I'll rip your twig off and shove it up your ass if you call me feral again."
A woman gasped, causing Suld to cackle. The man's aura bristled with hot anger and his hand flew to his dagger as he stood up, stooped slightly by the low ceiling of the rocking wagon. Suld raised her brow, unimpressed by the man's posturing. Lys sighed and pulled her own spirit forward, intertwining with the man's and seeping tendrils into his mind.
"Sit down," she said in a soft, melodious tone, yet tinged with an ominous severity. Without hesitation the man obeyed, a slave to her command. Satisfied, Lys released his mind, leaving him faint-hearted and confused. The others turned their gaze upon her in silent alarm. She briefly saw herself through their eyes; a frail, sickly looking elf with sharp and boney features and dour expression. Her pale skin was stretched thin as if she'd skipped meals and her raven hair hung limply over her shoulders, pooling into the hood of her cloak. Her roughspun tunic and worn breaches were in need of mending, though her weapons looked to be in good repair. Two daggers sat on her left hip, sheathe affixed to her belt. On the other side was a quiver full of ammunition for the unstrung bow propped against her leather pack by her feet. Initially, the other
travellers had barely paid her heed, but now most found her creepy, a sort of witch with sinister smile and mysterious intentions. She observed their animosity and fear with dispassion. Such reactions were not unfamiliar to neither Suld or Lys. Gods willing, they would arrive at their designation tomorrow without Suld inciting a commotion. The promise of riches and holdings awaited them in Gildedvale along side the welcome prospect of new beginnings.