Nightspun (#ONC_2020)

Chapter 2 - Jackalope

"Hiding from the High Nightcaster again, Syb?"

Sybil fidgeted, attempting to avoid the gaze of the woman in front of her. Amira Lightbane was once the most prominent Nightspell elves in Neridia but she was responsible for more than just her welfare. She was her best friend.

They were both kneeling side by side, complete opposites within a cramped, old tool shed renovated into a workshop to house a small, personal garden. While Sybil's long silver hair stuck out like a summer's day,  Amira's short, black militant style cut matched her bleak, winter attire to a tee.

"No. Just needed a new shovel, that's all." Sybil said simply, in a tone more fitting to making a comment on the weather.

Normally Amira was bubbly and carefree but when it came to budgets and quotas she became no nonsense and had a dry sense of humour that not even the High Nightcaster could match. After all, she was once his protege.

"Ah. What is it this time? Wood Rot? Termites? Stubbed toe?"

Sybil grit her teeth, focusing her energy on the plants in front of her. Whereas a Sunspell elf provided sunshine and bright bursts of colour, Nightspell elves created a nice cool nook for shady plants to stay in. Amira was no different, her excellent memory recalling every other excuse Sybil had made with only a slight tweak of a smile.

"Just add the new one to the tab and I'll get out of your way." The Sunspell elf said grumpily, filling another empty pot with the strong smelling mixture.

Amira said nothing, continuing to count seeds quietly to herself before distributing them to the packets or pots in front of her. Sybil swore underneath her breath, knowing full well that outburst wouldn't work. Unlike Rayner, Amira was no pushover to a bit of Sunspell and knew every one of her mood swings. It was a shame Sybil couldn't bring herself to tell her why.

Nightspell elves weren't exactly enemies of their brethren but their pale, chalk grey skin and slightly rounded ears tended to single them out from all the more eccentric Forecasters. They were mostly nocturnal, preferring to study astrology over botany and could provide shade and solace on the darkest of nights. Unlike Sunspell elves who could cast searing light with thought alone, it took time and effort to study the broken runes channeling the moon and stars into one unyielding entity.

Sybil didn't know whether that meant they were envious of their fellow weather changing elves or just embarrassed by them but she couldn't help but admire their tenacity. Even when the world couldn't provide the information they needed, they still found a way to use their Nightspells effectively to form one of the biggest Forecaster clans in Neridia. 

"How many shovels is it now, fourteen? Fifteen?" Amira asked, analysing the chart on the wall.

Sybil squirmed, the colour coded series of months marked in childlike drawings of items borrowed and broken. A shovel placed on one day was taken over by a great big X the next weekend. Whether it was seeds or watering cans, soil or plant food it was all up on the chart like little stickers paving out her failures. 

It was both harrowing and a little insulting but it did the job.

"Eighteen. Claus the 18th." Sybil said, reminding her of how she had named her first shovel after her grandfather.

Amira raised an eyebrow, planting five seeds in three separate pots without looking up from her friend. Sybil knew she wasn't the only multitalented person here but whether it was the lack of light, sleep or patience she couldn't help but find it irritating. Very irritating. If she wanted to joke then fine but Sybil could barely take it anymore.

"No. Clausettes yet?"

With a blitz of Sunspell, the pot Sybil was holding exploded in her hands, making her mildly thankful that she was wearing gloves. The red brick clay fell apart in her hands, soil spraying everywhere. 

The pungent smell of plant food was worse than the manure pile outside and she at least knew what secrets lay underneath that recipe for disaster. Who knew what kind of concoction she'd have to spend scrubbing out of her hair this time.

"Could you just write up the permit for the damn shovel, please? I don't have all day." Sybil said, exasperated by the conversation. 

The Sunspell elf was completely done with today. All she wanted to do was to get water from the spring and have a warm bath to completely forget about her troubles about tomorrow. Gathering up her things, she dumped them into a hessian sack and threw the broken pieces into another spare one still waiting to be patched back together.

"Sure, Sybil. One of those days, then?" Amira said, still trying to reconnect with her friend.

"Mm."

The Sunspell elf gave her a wan smile before picking herself up off the ground and lugging the hessian sack onto her back. With a civil nod of her head, Sybil headed out the tool shed to check on her seedlings while Amira was left alone to finish up.

Sybil followed the slab path round the back of the shed in an attempt to avoid as many people as possible. The greenhouse, Amira's workshop and the unceremoniously dumped pile of manure were situated on a mucky green Outcrop surrounded by a haphazard fence just on the outskirts of the jetty. 

Not only was it the cheapest place to add such an eyesore but the jigsaw like way of the farmer folk meant it could be situated anywhere. The abandoned jetty of Floodbound was the perfect place for onlookers and outcasts and it had been dubbed the name Jeering Jetty ever since.

Compared to the unstableness of their field, this semi arkalite stone land was chained and bolted down with Stormspell rods strong enough to survive a hurricane. It was affectionately known as the Stone Bouy.

It was there that much to Sybil's annoyance that Amira had swam the shortcut to catch up with her friend the only way she knew how. Sopping wet and covered in river weeds from head to toe, the brazen Nightspell elf clad in winter, waterproof gear waited casually against the greenhouse door, placing an all too familiar object on the hook meant for hanging plants.

Sybil stared at the dark omen of her past, knowing full well what the Nightspell elf was here for. It was a wooden mask, cleanly carved and hand painted in a style befitting the joining of sun and night. It depicted a deadly yet joyous animal, one half in a jovial light and the other in a mocking smirk of a creature. It was who she was, deep down and like every apprentice it was her job to embody the animal she chose. 

But no more.

It was now riddled with rotting holes and months of wear and tear, the pride filled antlers now chipped and broken, one ear barely hanging on as the indented eye sockets made perfect homes for worms and other creepy crawlies. 

The ink stained wood was now smeared in dark creases of brown and mulched grass, a horrific sight for something that took months of hard earned whittling to finally make her mark on the world. She had certainly done that. 

Burning her mask with her Sunspell after the worst night of her life was supposed to be freeing but her dream of becoming a Nightspun would never be so easy to dispose of. Not even two months of rotten manure could make her forget that. The mask of a storyteller never belonged to her in the first place.

The name Jackalope was dead.