Vescrutia: Legacy

Shabuto raised his hand and produced the dagger like second nature, a Mistral Instrument comprised easily produced from one of the most advanced forms. Azul's eyes widened, impressed with the ease in which this presumably young one was able to hone his craft. The enchantment with fire was a new layer, most Venkage relied on their Anthem and its natural affinities to enhance their Mistral tools, but Shabuto's adventures taught him a wider array of magic Azul hadn't seen in one of his kind in quite some time.

"No Saltare, but you can craft Mistral from bone?! Quite the talent indeed! Cyrus must have gotten a pretty penny for you." Azul chuckled, examining the design and style of the dagger. Many of their tribe who were gifted enough to be able to work with Mistral did so through their sweat or hair, easily replenished sources for the prized resource, and were also gifted with the silvery Squall Stripes that adorned his own forearms. He didn't see any on Shabuto readily, but that didn't mean there were none elsewhere on him. "The secrets of the Venkage run deep, and without any Saltare, you still have quite a lot to learn."

Azul stood to his feet and took a light turn step away from Shabuto, the wind swirled around him and his flowing pants ruffled lightly with a breeze circling his ankles. "They are the dances of our people, symbols of our connection to the Archipelago and the currents flowing throughout it. Each island has its own Saltare, but they are all derived from the Saltare Silvaner shared between us all." Azul opened his arms wide and gestured to the various sets of masks, weapons, armor, and tools lining the walls. Each set had its own charm and unique design, but they all complemented one another and seemed to be able to be mixed and matched without losing a hint of coordination between them. “Though our islands are separate, the Archipelago binds us. Though our styles are unique, we are still tied by one dance, one sky.” He leaned forward in a slight bow toward Shabuto, honoring him in his return to home and his mastery of his Mistral Art. Shabuto’s trials were myriad since before he even left the Archipelago, and for all his gifts, he hadn’t been treated to the grace offered openly by the Venkage in a great amount of time. Azul could tell by the look on his face and confirm with the story of his travels that Shabuto needed to be reintroduced to the ways of the tribe, the true ways, unsullied by the selfish desires of his handler.

“Welcome home.”

"No Saltare, but you can craft Mistral from bone?! Quite the talent indeed! Cyrus must have gotten a pretty penny for you." Azul chuckled, examining the design and style of the dagger. Many of their tribe who were gifted enough to be able to work with Mistral did so through their sweat or hair, easily replenished sources for the prized resource, and were also gifted with the silvery Squall Stripes that adorned his own forearms. He didn't see any on Shabuto readily, but that didn't mean there were none elsewhere on him. "The secrets of the Venkage run deep, and without any Saltare, you still have quite a lot to learn."

Shabuto gripped his shoulder in the face of Azul's hearty laugh, a morbid joke, but one that Shabuto couldn't help but crack a small smile at. He listened intently as Azul explained the saltare to him. Each island held its own dance, a part interwoven within its culture. Yet, it was all derivative of one dance, one sky somehow, that brought him a sense of peace, of connection after battling the feelings of being different from the others.

The wind blows many different ways, but it is all still one wind.

A voice, aged and resonant, brushed against the edges of his memory. “The wind blows many different ways, but it is all still one wind.” Cyrus. He had said something like that, once. A long time ago, in a different life. But Cyrus’s lessons had always been twisted, laced with harsh practicality and self-serving ambition. He pushed the memory aside, focusing on Azul.

nd unique design, but they all complemented one another and seemed to be able to be mixed and matched without losing a hint of coordination between them. “Though our islands are separate, the Archipelago binds us. Though our styles are unique, we are still tied by one dance, one sky.” He leaned forward in a slight bow toward Shabuto, honoring him in his return to home and his mastery of his Mistral Art. Shabuto’s trials were myriad since before he even left the Archipelago, and for all his gifts, he hadn’t been treated to the grace offered openly by the Venkage in a great amount of time. Azul could tell by the look on his face and confirm with the story of his travels that Shabuto needed to be reintroduced to the ways of the tribe, the true ways, unsullied by the selfish desires of his handler.

“Welcome home.”

The words hit Shabuto with the force of a physical blow, yet it was a blow that shattered chains, not bones. Not pain, but release. In the desolate camps of the Nightmare Wolves, huddled around meager fires, he’d dreamed of this, prayed for it. To be home anywhere but creating weapons of war. A hope Grixas had mocked, a faith he’d tried to crush under the heel of cruel pragmatism. But here, in this space, in Azul’s presence, the words were a balm, soothing a wound that had festered for a decade. He was safe. He was home. Unbidden tears welled, blurring his vision. He found himself bowing deeply to Azul, fighting to control the tremor in his voice, the flood behind his eyes.

“Thank you… Azul,” he managed, the words thick with emotion.

He rose, rubbing a fist across his damp cheeks. His body felt… lighter. Eerily so. As if the weight of a mountain, a lifetime of tension, had vanished.

“Oh…” Shabuto’s voice was a little shaky, but clearer now, more present. He looked down at his own legs, a sudden thought striking him. “Did you mean… these things?”

He reached down, his hand trembling slightly, and pulled up the hem of his worn trousers. First one leg, then the other, revealing the lower portions of his limbs. Running down the front of each shin, from just below the knee to the heel of his foot, were two distinct, shimmering stripes. Silver lines etched into his skin, catching the light like captured moonlight. Squall Stripes. Not on his arms, like Azul, but undeniably there, marking him, claiming him. A silent testament to the Venkage that flowed not just through his veins, but perhaps, through his very bones.

"Yeah, those would be them things."

Azul snapped and pointed at Shabuto's shins with both hands, happy he could confirm a core part of Venkage mythology that played directly into Shabuto's experience thus far. Azul had seen Squall Stripes on most of the members of Alsace and most of anyone who'd experienced the Beckoning of the Storm themselves. Though he was never afflicted with it himself, so many of the tribe ventured into the storm shadow with a persistent curiosity, an insatiable urge, a magnetic pull into the mostly untamed wilds beyond the Jugalan Ridge. Sporting Squall stripes himself, Azul felt a natural affinity for the Saltares, the dances of the storm from across the many islands of the Archipelago and that gave him a closer connection to his fellow tribe, allowing him to move through the islands and their people with an uncanny ease rivaled by few others in his sphere.

Shabuto's relieved sigh seemed to take a weight off his soul, the air around him grew lighter, rested more gently about his shoulders and hair. With Azul carrying a whirling tuft around his ankles, he saw it as a crossroads in their conversation.

"So, what now?" Azul asked. Shabuto revealed himself to be Venkage through and through, but he might not have been afflicted with the tribe's curse as much as Cyrus had just cursed him with his own plans. With his handler gone, Shabuto had free rein to explore the island, find his family, learn some Saltare, the Archipelago was his oyster and Azul had a whole afternoon to devote to getting him reacclimated with his people, his land. Surely, he had some burning questions now that the clouds shrouding some of the corners of his mind receded.

The question hung in the air, shimmering with the weight of true freedom. Azul's eyes, calm and expectant, held none of the demands Shabuto had known his entire life. What he wanted to do. The sheer alienness of the concept made his heart lurch. For a lifetime, he had been a tool, a pawn, a survivor forced to do the unthinkable in the brutal struggle just to breath. Now, standing on this sun-drenched, peaceful shore, he was being offered the reins of his own life.

He was on the precipice of change, a chasm opening between the 'then' he survived and the 'now' he could choose. His gaze drifted back to the gentle sway of the island's unique flora, the distant shimmer of the ocean. He reflected, the currents of his journey flooding his mind – the dizzying highs of unexpected kindness, the crushing lows of betrayal and hardship, the relentless, unpredictable tides of fate that had carried him from suffering to... this.

It was then that specific memories resurfaced, sharp and potent: Sophia's heinous evil plan, the demon helping her, and the chilling clarity of the vow he had made to the entity that helped him claw his way out of the hellscape of Rudral. The pact. The binding agreement that still pulsed beneath his skin, a silent promise that both saved him and claimed a piece of his future. He felt a flicker of unease, a familiar coldness wrapping around that part of his being.

He chose, deliberately, not to speak of it. Not to mention the vow, or the strange, powerful being that now resided somewhere within him, quiet for now. He had already been silenced once, held back from speaking a truth that could have been dangerous. He wouldn't invite scrutiny, not from Azul, not from anyone connected to this place, not yet. There was still so much about this internal passenger he didn't understand, but while it slept, he would grasp this fragile moment of peace, this brief respite on the island.

And it was a respite. Returning home, or to a semblance of it, felt like a balm to a long-festering wound. The air, the light, the very energy of the place resonated deep within him, a spiritual healing he hadn't known he needed. But even as his soul drank from its familiar well, a colder, harder truth settled in his heart. He couldn't stay. The island offered solace, but his path lay elsewhere. There was too much undone, too much to settle, too many ghosts to confront before he could ever contemplate true peace.

He thought of his parents. Cyrus had told him they were dead, taken when he was young, the reason he had raised Shabuto. Another lie, he was almost certain. A deep ache resonated within him, the yearning to find them, to meet the people whose blood flowed in his veins, the source of the fundamental pieces that made him him. Would they welcome him? Or would they see a stranger, marked by the life he had been forced to live? Did they even remember him? Had they searched? Had they wept?

He drew a breath, the island air filling his lungs, anchoring him. He met Azul's gaze, the silence heavy with unspoken histories, and gave voice to the decision born of reflection and necessity.

"As much as I find myself wanting to..." his voice was quiet, tinged with regret, "...I can't stay here. My destiny... reaches beyond these shores."

His eyes drifted past Azul, settling on the beautiful, resonant crystal chimes that hung nearby, the shimmering energy they contained. Then, his gaze moved to other crystals, the raw potential within them. Saltare. An expression, a skill he had never been taught, or if he had was lost to him. A connection to a heritage denied to him by a life of exile and servitude.

"Can you teach me to use Saltare?" he asked, the request firm despite the tremor of vulnerability underneath. He needed it. He needed to understand this part of himself, this power tied to his roots, before facing the future. "Afterwards," he continued, the next part of his plan forming, a necessary step towards confronting the past before fully embracing the future, "I want to visit the place where Cyrus and I lived..."

As much as he sometimes dared to whisper the hope to himself, the idea that his parents might still be on this island, hidden away, waiting, was a fragile delusion. One he couldn't afford to invest in. Cyrus had raised him, shaped him, lied to him for years. The trauma of that 'home' demanded confrontation. Had his parents even told anyone their child was missing? The mystery of their fate, of their search (or lack thereof), was a weight he couldn't lift right now. It was a puzzle for another day.

Instead, he would focus on what was tangible, on the steps laid out before him. Learning Saltare wasn't just about power; it was a chance to feel truly a part of his people, to embody the strength and knowledge of his heritage. It would give him what he needed – both skill and a sense of belonging – to face the desolate place where he had spent his stolen childhood. Visiting Cyrus's old home would be a necessary act of making peace with "what could have been," the twisted version of a life he'd lived under a lie. Only then could he truly embark on the journey to define "what is and would be." He waited for Azul's response, the quiet resolve hardening within him. The path was difficult, the future uncertain, but for the first time in his life, he was taking the first steps because he chose them.

With the cloak of his mysterious past peeled off of his shoulders, Shabuto almost looked like a new man. He looked ready to immerse himself in the crash course of his people after being kept away from them so long, eager to understand more about the tribe, the history, and their Anthem.

"You sure you really want to see where he kept you again? I'll find someone who knows something, we just need some time."

Azul started swaying back and forth, bounding lightly on the balls of his feet, light breezes skating across the floor with each step. The Saltare dances of the Venkage grew over the generations as movement disciplines and styles of storytelling ingrained in the history of each island of the Archipelago. They all had their journeys to tell, trials and stories to carry into the next generation, cautionary tales with lessons to be learned. In his position in Alsace, Azul learned the basics of many Saltare within the Venkage diaspora and had experiencing bridging the gap between two styles for many people. Shabuto had access to the best basics teacher he could possibly find.

"Let's get to work."

Azul began with the lessons, recanting the Salta Tres, the Legend of the Three Currents to Shabuto.

The threecurrents are said to dance all around the world, Geka the Flowing Sea leads the journey wrapping all of Vescrutia. Their journey created the seas and currents that make up the Big Blue. Geka is followed by Kaven, the Coursing Blight, who in some legends is in love, in others they are obsessed with Geka and use all their strength reaching for them. They reach for Geka with all their might, creating the lightning that strikes the water's surface. Because of the volatile relationship between Geka and Kagen, Venge , the Chasing Gale followed them, using the winds themselves to protect the world from their partners' affairs and hide the events in the clouds.

Each act of the story had its own choreography that accompanied it that Azul executed effortlessly, not losing a single breath throughout the performance. They danced deep into the night, going over each of the foundational lifts, jumps, and swipes. It was the same dance they performed at festivals and holidays, but one that Azul hadn't taken from start to finish in quite a while. Still, the steps flowed from him like water.

Once Shabuto was satisfied with his progress, he could make his way to Cyrus's abode. It was somewhere along the Jugalan Ridge in a cove that protected the building from the persistent storms that battered the area. Very few people elected to live within the Silvaner Storm Shadow and those who did were often very unique individuals without families of their own. Azul pointed him in the direction of the ridge and offered some lodging in the dojo for the night, knowing he might not want to stay somewhere rainy for the night, no matter how nostalgic it could be.

Azul started swaying back and forth, bounding lightly on the balls of his feet, light breezes skating across the floor with each step. The Saltare dances of the Venkage grew over the generations as movement disciplines and styles of storytelling ingrained in the history of each island of the Archipelago. They all had their journeys to tell, trials and stories to carry into the next generation, cautionary tales with lessons to be learned. In his position in Alsace, Azul learned the basics of many Saltare within the Venkage diaspora and had experiencing bridging the gap between two styles for many people. Shabuto had access to the best basics teacher he could possibly find.

"Let's get to work."

Azul began with the lessons, recanting the Salta Tres, the Legend of the Three Currents to Shabuto.

He began with the lessons, his movements fluid yet precise as he started to recant the Salta Tres, the Legend of the Three Currents, for Shabuto. His hands painted arcs in the air, his feet traced patterns on the floor, each step and gesture tied to the narrative he spoke.

"The three currents are said to dance all around the world," Azul narrated, his body embodying the first current, a slow, powerful ripple. "Geka the Flowing Sea leads the journey wrapping all of Vescrutia. Their journey created the seas and currents that make up the Big Blue." His movements were broad, expansive, like the vast ocean.

"Geka is followed by Kaven, the Coursing Blight," Azul shifted, his movements becoming sharper, more erratic, a tension entering his form. "Who in some legends is in love, in others they are obsessed with Geka and use all their strength reaching for them." His arms stretched, reaching, then snapping back, mimicking a violent energy. "They reach for Geka with all their might, creating the lightning that strikes the water's surface." A sharp, percussive stamp of his foot punctuated this, like a crack of thunder.

"Because of the volatile relationship between Geka and Kaven," Azul’s posture softened slightly, though a new kind of energy, protective and swirling, took hold. "Venge, the Chasing Gale followed them, using the winds themselves to protect the world from their partners' affairs and hide the events in the clouds." His movements became lighter, faster, a whirlwind of gentle sweeps and sudden gusts, hands fluttering like leaves in a storm, circling and shielding the space around him.

Shabuto watched intently, his eyes fixed on Azul's performance. The movements weren't just motions; they were narrative made visible. Seeing them began to unearth hidden gems in his mangled memories. Flashes, quick and disorienting at first, then slower, clearer. Images of a younger him, stumbling over similar steps. Images of people who looked like him – older faces, hands guiding his small ones – dancing with a familiar reverence.

He saw the ebbs of currents rising, the waters swayed in his mind's eye. He saw lightning crackle, sharp and bright against a dark sky. But it was the wind, the representation of Venge, that resonated deepest. Only when the winds howled through Azul's form did he feel a profound, almost aching connection. It was a physical pull, a memory stirring in his bones.

That's when he recalled it, not just an image, but a feeling, a name: Gale Step. The Saltare his father had taught him as a child, not in a grand hall like this, but on a windswept cliff edge, the real gales whipping around them. He recalled his time on Rudral, how the wind spirits had seemed to call to him, how they responded, not just to his movements, but to his pleas, his needs. And how it was those very same currents of air, commanded or perhaps simply responding, that had saved his life against impossible odds, a memory fragmented but undeniable.

Azul finished the sequence, returning to a still, grounded posture, breathing lightly. "That is the basic form of Salta Tres," he said, turning to Shabuto. "We will break it down, element by element-"

He stopped, seeing the look on Shabuto's face. It wasn't just the concentration of a student; it was the dawning recognition of someone finding a lost piece of themselves. The 'mangled memories' weren't just theoretical; they were being healed by the dance itself.

Shabuto didn't speak immediately. He raised a hand, tentatively, mimicking a gentle swirl of air, a movement from Venge's part of the dance. A small, hesitant smile touched his lips. He hadn't just been shown a basic form; he had been given a key, unlocking a path back to who he was, carried on the very winds he had almost forgotten. The best basics teacher he could have found had just taught him the most fundamental lesson of all: his own history was in the dance.

"Azul...thank you...truly"

He thought, not wishing to saturate him with praise, as he began to take soft steps, they seemed casual but where measured, and as he stepped more and more they became increasingly fluid. Each one subtle shifting the direction of the crystal chimes. Shabuto had thought he was never gifted such a vital piece of his families history, but like many things what the mind might forget, the body, ones vessel always remembers. The fondness of this retrieval of self inspired his legs to extend, his arms to sway and before he knew it, he was striding along the floor boards. Not as eloquently as Azul but enough to where he only lost his footing once or twice.

As the hours slipped by Shabuto progress excelled the air currents heading his every turn, ever curve of his torso every sway of his legs. Eventually the dawn struck and though he was a sweaty mess Shabuto had never known such liberation. It was as if his every care could be cast upon the chasing gale. He resolved to rest up, nodding at Azul affirmingly as he gathered his strength for the trek ahead. Azul may have thought it foolish to return to his place of capture, but for Shabuto it was a closure he needed to finally move on and to embark on his new quest. One that would take every ounce of his focus, and resolve to see through.