Post by Itanecrio on Mar 23, 2010 17:16:02 GMT -5
In every shade from pale mint to harsh violet the vats carved into the living stone of the tanning chamber shifted with intermingled light. Itan's inflective face peered down at them, his mind and memory teeming with the intricacies and subtleties of tending the phosphorescence, beings so tiny they could only be seen by way of the light they created whilst digesting the soft matter of the curing hides -but beings which Itan had felt a stewardship and a friendship with. He held out his ashen-grey hand to let the light wash amongst his fingers, the phosphorescent colour lending his tundra complexion the vibrant blue of the forest and plains people. He wondered at that, at exactly what had created the pale colour of many of his people. What long slow evolution. Or was it -like with the phosphoresence of the vats - the forest people's very bodies were in symbiosis with beings too tiny to be perceived, beings that only flourished in the climate, and with the diet of a forest-dweller. Or, Itan mused, was it simply a Na'vi adaptability, to become one, flesh and bone alike, with the environment. His brows knitted further over his especially flat and broad-nosed face. The silvered irises capturing the light, reflecting it in innumerable bright points of light, like the stars. He worried, why, with his deep affinity and bond with the phosphorescence, and with his good standing in the clan, why did he not feel at rest in his homeland. Why did he yearn toward the thought of the forests, and the plains?
It was the thought of forging a bond with the life-force there. At times he'd felt a certain bond with the life force in the vats, a sensitivity to whether a given vat had the strength to cope with a larger hide; which vats prospered upon the fattier pelts; which vats needed a few bones to be left in with the skins; which needed more salt; which needed to be kept warm. These fine points Itan had endeavoured to relate to his successor, Tseo'rey, suprising himself with the pedagogical fervour he applied to passing on the inheritance of his knowledge.
Intent in his newly assigned role, Tseo'rey leant his muscular frame into scraping the flesh and fat from a hide, looking up with sweat beading upon his brow, the luminance of his markings showing the inner tumult of his emotions: distaste mingled with a sense of duty, and curiosity as to what Itan was pondering. "I already ruined this one." He leant back. "See, I pushed too deep there, the vat-phos's will eat through the skin now." Tseo'rey shook his head, and slowly stood. "I'll never get as good as you."
Itan shrugged off the compliment. "Assuredly you will, Tseo'rey. But the skills must become habit before they become art. I chose you, remember. Trust in my choice."
Tseo'rey saluted his tutor, holding his hand over his heart, hands covered to the elbow in gristle and fatty-tissue. Itan smiled, but mostly at himself. How suddenly he had grown into a certain master-craftsman's demeanour; allowing himself the foresight and oaths of one whose wisdom was deeper than any other in his field. An ease born from his resolution to leave, as soon as the Tsahik declared the pass to the south open. He had seen her seldom since the announcement. Now that his role amongst the hunters and traders was systematically being handed over to Tseo'rey, there was little that drew Itan near the circles of the Council. He wondered what the Tsahik thought of his judgement, and snorted at the thought. He doubted strongly that such an insignificance surfaced for a moment amongst the weighty concerns of her limited time.
Still brooding on a mind and heart full of thought, Itan allowed his feet to choose a destination for him -only distantly aware that he was climbing the winding stair to the Window of the South. Large and imposingly built, even amongst his own people, Itan's shoulders often touched the walls of the stair-well on both sides, the steps so sheer that his tail brushed against the ceiling behind him.
Yawning southward went the valley: the primordial shape of the gulleys, foothills, and escarpments providing the safe haven that was home to the Tuyeteira, and the beasts of their hunting grounds. The weather had not been gentle, he mused. The pass would be open late.
It was the thought of forging a bond with the life-force there. At times he'd felt a certain bond with the life force in the vats, a sensitivity to whether a given vat had the strength to cope with a larger hide; which vats prospered upon the fattier pelts; which vats needed a few bones to be left in with the skins; which needed more salt; which needed to be kept warm. These fine points Itan had endeavoured to relate to his successor, Tseo'rey, suprising himself with the pedagogical fervour he applied to passing on the inheritance of his knowledge.
Intent in his newly assigned role, Tseo'rey leant his muscular frame into scraping the flesh and fat from a hide, looking up with sweat beading upon his brow, the luminance of his markings showing the inner tumult of his emotions: distaste mingled with a sense of duty, and curiosity as to what Itan was pondering. "I already ruined this one." He leant back. "See, I pushed too deep there, the vat-phos's will eat through the skin now." Tseo'rey shook his head, and slowly stood. "I'll never get as good as you."
Itan shrugged off the compliment. "Assuredly you will, Tseo'rey. But the skills must become habit before they become art. I chose you, remember. Trust in my choice."
Tseo'rey saluted his tutor, holding his hand over his heart, hands covered to the elbow in gristle and fatty-tissue. Itan smiled, but mostly at himself. How suddenly he had grown into a certain master-craftsman's demeanour; allowing himself the foresight and oaths of one whose wisdom was deeper than any other in his field. An ease born from his resolution to leave, as soon as the Tsahik declared the pass to the south open. He had seen her seldom since the announcement. Now that his role amongst the hunters and traders was systematically being handed over to Tseo'rey, there was little that drew Itan near the circles of the Council. He wondered what the Tsahik thought of his judgement, and snorted at the thought. He doubted strongly that such an insignificance surfaced for a moment amongst the weighty concerns of her limited time.
Still brooding on a mind and heart full of thought, Itan allowed his feet to choose a destination for him -only distantly aware that he was climbing the winding stair to the Window of the South. Large and imposingly built, even amongst his own people, Itan's shoulders often touched the walls of the stair-well on both sides, the steps so sheer that his tail brushed against the ceiling behind him.
Yawning southward went the valley: the primordial shape of the gulleys, foothills, and escarpments providing the safe haven that was home to the Tuyeteira, and the beasts of their hunting grounds. The weather had not been gentle, he mused. The pass would be open late.