It is almost an hour after sunrise when the first of Solus' life giving rays reach the top of the canopy over Midwood. The light almost immediately burns off any remaining dew and begins to warm these leaves, only a month old at this point in the season. Beneath one such leaf a large black fly is stirred from it's torpor and filled with the heat of the day. It crawls into the light and flicks it's wings almost experimentally before taking to the air in search of the warm blood it drinks to survive. The fly heads south, over the trees, toward the rolling fields of a small bit of land that some, not the fly, call Furrough. Soon the fly nears the edge of the trees it buzzes out over a hard packed dirt road that it instinctively knows might contain it's quarry, and turns to follow it in a direction some call, again not the fly, east, and toward a place that also has a name unknown to the fly: Threshold.
After a time the fly comes up behind a group of people riding light horses already beset by a small group of it's buzzing kin no doubt only just recently awoken as well. The riders bear the mark of The Sheriff Graeys, and ride horses branded with his symbol as well. They are no doubt Constables riding out to the village of Threshold to offer their, and by extension the Sheriff's, services as law enforcers. The fly comprehends none of this. The fly just makes its way down to one of the riders to drink, but soon realizes instinctively, as it nears that it's quarry, that this thing is too thin. Instead it flies past the riders face, narrowly avoiding the the bony hand that swats at it, and onto the rump of the mount. It lands, bites, and drinks. No sooner than it begins to feed, however, the horses tail swoops up and slaps the fly, which stunned, falls to the hard packed dirt of the road on it's back, and then, just as it begins to struggle too right itself, it is crushed flat under the iron shod hoof of another of the horses in the group.
Sonofabitch… I honestly can't stand these flies, Yuri thinks as he sidles slowly from side to side in the creaking leather saddle of his horse. My thighs are already on fire, this is chafing, it's chafing. I mean, I always heard it was bad, but this is bad. We can't have chafing. Nope. But what can I do? Who am I? I'm nobody. I can't stop Solus from rising and setting, or the flies from annoying my mount… Betsy, yeah, I think I'll call her Betsy…
As the insects buzz around his head and arms, Yuri's rail thin, knobby-elbowed, arms swing aimlessly and fruitlessly through the air.
It's the noise, his consciousness blurts, If only I could make them stop humming and biting my mount, Ow! And me.
With the very thought of self-preservation, as per usual, Yuri's mind wanders to a new subject, buried deep within the recesses of his psyche. His inner eye examines the fly biting his wrist with such focus, that for a brief moment it seems as though time has stopped. Feeling as though he was miles and miles away, Yuri, with a heavy exhalation through his hooked nose, climbs out of the warm sanctuary of his mind.
He notices that the trees in the distance are all standing in a random and haphazard formation. If there is one thing Yuri cannot abide, it is the inherent lack of order in nature. With a grimace, his mind flashes to the painfully humiliating moment mere days ago when his father kicked him off the farm. He remembered fondly the dream that he was having, as his "pet", Ivor, (really just a piece of some gem he found, under his pillow of all places!) was dancing with a group of ugly farm girls, the Feans, one of them was Yuri's very own arranged-bride-to-be, when that familiar choking, sweaty sensation once again visited his forehead and throat.
"Why did you dig up all of the rutabaga!?", screamed Dad, as Yuri slowly bubbled into consciousness.
Somewhat haltingly, "Hmmrfh… ackkkcha… hack, hack… " He remembers trying to reply in kind, but Dad was clearly pressing too hard for him to speak. He remembered thinking, The rutabaga were all crooked, you dolt! If you could plant a row of anything in a straight line, I think it might kill me. It was then that everything in his field of vision started sparkling with white hot stars.
The next thing he remembered, he was lying in the street, next to the Office of the Constables in Guyns, miles from his familiy farm. Then, within minutes (he never even had a chance to speak or butt in), Yuri was a constable.
What a fucking joke, his mind rebelled. It would no doubt take weeks for him to figure out how he got even got to Guyns, but Yuri was certain it would eventually return to him if he devoted himself to constant contempla — "Ow!" Another fly. Yuri looks around and notices that everyone else's attention is elsewhere just as another horse-fly buzzes through his field of vision. That's it! Look at these horrible beasts!, he thought, All my life I've always resented the fact that you fucking pests can't seem to decide on anything. 'Where am I flying? Where am I landing? Oops, forgot to shit, puke, and lay eggs on that thing. Going around for another pass!' Yuri's eyes begin to shine with a pale blue light. With a subtly reserved, yet annoyed gesture, and another loud exhalation through the nose, Yuri watches another horse-fly land on his exposed, bony forearm.
This time, as Yuri's very skin hardens to the texture of bone or ivory, the flies' bites illicit no pain. With a parting scowl and another lithe swat, Yuri pats his left breast pocket. Through the seams of his shirt a faint green hue glow issues forth. Yuri takes a quick look around, pulls down his sleaves to cover his now chitinous arms, and pulls his cloak around him tightly, in order to shield the faint clues to his deep secret from the rest of his patrolling party. With a slow, laconic glance from face to face, horse to horse, Yuri once again tries to reach an uncomfortable compromise with his creaking leather saddle.
I really need someone to show me how to ride one of these things correctly. Come on Betsy, no, no, not off the path, not off the path, his resolved, yet constant inner monologue cajoles.
A few paces behind Loreathal sits slumped in his saddle, the folds of his maroon robes and cowl shaping his form into something resembling a sack of rice with a blanket draped over it. Going at a stiff trot he appears to ride at least somewhat gracefully despite the fact that it's obvious he's never been in the saddle for this long. Ever.
