Tristan smiled when Mozenrath appeared again at dawn, misty eyed and looked quite a deal more chipper than he had in a good long while. "Well is someone ready for another stroll, or are your legs tired from all your…work…last night?" Mozenrath didn't even feel ashamed, just changed his clothing and shoes and met Tristan at the door. He had been sharing the hut with the chief druid for a little while now, and pretty much knew his way around it. A part of him wished very much for his own place, a little solitude, especially now. Too bad he didn't have enough time on his hands to learn how to build one. Tristan tossed him a walking staff made from yew and they were off.
Mozenrath couldn't be sure, but the sun seemed perfectly bright today, just enough to warm your back, not enough to leave a burn. The breeze was balmy and comfortable, even the song birds, a sound he usually found irritating this early in the morning seemed set up just to compliment his mood. Hell he was practically giddy!
Tristan kept his peace, remembering when he was young and all that entailed. No one could begrudge a man the right to a little happiness now and then. Still, he needed to keep Mozenrath's attention focused. He started to fade, disappearing into the dense structure of the oaks. He waited patiently for a moment, seeing if Mozenrath would even realize he was gone. It took him a moment to see that the pale druid was no longer in sight. Tristan hummed and readied his staff to smack Mozenrath's skull again. He stepped out from the fabric of the oak, leaving a little kiss on the wood in thanks for hiding him and humped at the insolence of his charge.
An acorn smacked Tristan cleanly in the back of the head. The chief druid turned and found himself ready to laugh when he saw Mozenrath above him, holding onto the lower branches of the tree. He nodded in acknowledgement of Mozenrath's accomplishment. "Very good, your learning." He said and continued his walk. He led Mozenrath down a steep slop. It must have amazed the youth that someone as old as him could climb down such a treacherous path with ease. Mozenrath himself was having to work not to slide to the bottom. When he finally did make it down, Tristan was waiting patiently at the bottom with a lunch of bread, goat cheese, mead, and a little dried deer meat. "We will stop here for now." He said. "It's time we had a talk, between men Mozenrath."
The partook of the meal, enjoying it and talking of little things. Finally, Tristan looked Mozenrath over and leaned back. "Why?" he asked simply. Mozenrath frowned with a piece of bread in his mouth. Why what? "Why, when we told you of your potential as a druid, did you seize it? What made you decide so quickly?"
Mozenrath opened his mouth to speak, and stopped himself. Tristan was not looking for a quick answer, he was seeking a real, honest reason. Something Mozenrath wasn't entirely sure he could give him. "To be truthful…I don't know." He said. "I was…unsure. I am in a new place, with people who seem to like me, but do not want to come too close." He lifted his hand. "In part I think because of this."
"In a way, that is true." Tristan admitted. "But Savern does not seem to mind now does she?"
Mozenrath sipped down some ale. "You have your fingers in every pie don't you old druid?"
The old druid laughed in good nature. "I suppose I do. But really, nether of you attempted any kind of secrecy. I expect she won't be your only partner after a while." He noted how Mozenrath's chest puffed in happiness. "But you haven't answered my question Mozenrath." Tristan added.
"At first…I was thinking about that man, the one sacrificed at Beltane. I was afraid if I didn't become one of your kind, I might be the next one wearing the horns." He admitted and Tristan nodded. "But now. I'm still a stranger here, I can't remember anything but my own name. What am I supposed to do? Spend the rest of my life wandering around in a stupor asking "Do you know me?" to every one who stops by? Things feel familiar to my skin when I least expect it, and I get déjà vu so often it's become annoying." Mozenrath took a long look at his hand. "And this…where did this even come from? Do I want to know?" He was becoming frustrated now, and Tristan could feel strong emotions building up behind what was often a stone wall of a face. "Hell this…" he gestured to the bands of candidacy on his arms. "Is the only kind of direction I have in my life!" Mozenrath hung his head. "It's better than nothing by a long shot."
Tristan wondered if he should bring something up that had been bothering him the last few weeks. He put a brotherly hand on Mozenrath's head. "Tell me about your dreams." He said in a tone that provoked confidence. In reality, the touch was connecting a very subtle amount of magic between himself and the desert man. He was pushing the ethical boundaries a bit, but in this case he felt it justified. His own intuition told him that there were deep, hidden hurts here, things that could potentially rupture the sensitive fabric of his memory. He could, if he so chose, bring those memories to the surface full, repair them, and help in the healing process. But in that decision stood a terrible risk. He could not simply pick and choose between memories. If he touched on that part of the mind, all of them would come flooding back, Mozenrath of the Black Sands would come flooding back. On the other side, Tristan could seek out and destroy these memories, obliterating the tyrant and necromancer that was. But once again, he could not be selective. His disruption would cause ALL of Mozenrath to burn away, even the slowly emerging personality to which he was becoming accustomed and…dare he say it…like.
Or, he could let things stand, and be a friend when the truth came around, as truth often does.
Mozenrath closed his eyes. "I've been having these dreams. I am well, happy even, and suddenly a dark shadow looms over me. It's a man, taller than me, which makes me think I am younger than him. He looked, unpleasant, and when he grab my shoulder I have a strong sense of invasion, like he's forcing his way into me somehow." Mozenrath felt the pit in his stomach growl. This was something…private?...inside of him. Something maybe from his past, something he got the feeling he'd never told anyone else. He had little doubt the druid was using magic on him right now. Funny, he didn't mind as much as he'd have thought.
Tristan searched his own memory for what he knew about Mozenrath. Most of it was scattered tales from traders here and there. Erie was well known for it's incomparable blades, spices, wool, and herbs and they got their fair share of merchants from Greece, Rome, the occasional boat from Egypt, and yes, the Persian sands. The Celts were suckers for a good tale around the fire, and stories of the evil necromancer of the Citadel were something of an epic. But it had been a while since a bard had traveled round here, and their own bard Ruadh had passed away last summer. His replacement was still learning the old stories.
Come to think of it he did recall something about the former owner of the Citadel. He knew Mozenrath had defeated his mentor and turned him into some kind of disturbing dead man walk. The display of vengeance show something about Mozenrath's mentality at the time. He could have simply killed the man and been done with it, but no. He trapped him, if only to show that he could. He made him into a servant, displaying dominance over one who had dominated him, a trophy to show his own power.
Keeping a trophy was something he could relate to. The warriors of the clan often brought home the heads of their enemies, though usually reserved for only the strongest and most powerful of their nemesis. It was a symbol of prestige. But with Mozenrath had his former master, Tristan sensed something more malicious. Still…what to say?
"I would say chances are equal. This could be a part of your past, or it could be just a dream." There, stay in the middle until your sure of your stance. Tristan looked and saw that this was not enough for the young Mozenrath. He was seeking definite guidance from someone older. That was the problem with the young, they always thought someone older must know everything. "Mozenrath, do you feel overpowered a great deal? Like you have no privacy or space of your own?"
Damn he hated it when Tristan saw inside him like that. But then he had talked to the man in confidence. Mozenrath gave a sidelong glance that said everything and Tristan chuckled.
"Well, your no child." He said smoothly. "You've been pent up inside an old mans hut for nearly two months now, perhaps it's time we looked into building a place of your own." Mozenrath looked up at him with surprise. "A little independence can do wonders for a man's spirit. And lets face it, sometimes you just need a bloody moment to think." He gave a knowing smile. "Not to mentioned a little place to take a willing woman to. That pool gets awfully cold once fall rolls around."