Most of the troupe were nocturnal. Even most of those who hadn't been had grown to it after a time spent among the mercenaries and storytellers. It was a fair expectation; the grasslands where they often made camp were far too hot under the ever present harshness of the sun. None could argue against the merits of sleeping the heat away, conserving energy to hunt in the cool air of the night. Granted, there still had to always be a watch kept during the daylight hours, but what might strike one as unusual was for any one member to actively seek out a daylight patrol, day after day.
Strange as it might seem, to any that knew him it might make sense from Moto'moyo, son of Gremio. The change in him as a youngling, barely older than a cub, had terrified his parents. There were still times that his mother wept for what might have befallen him in the clutches of their enemies. Honestly? No one was sure. The only two beings in the entire world who knew what had happened to him was the vampire b***h that had stolen him away and Moyo himself. If the gods knew, none cared to share any more than he did. Moyo would even tell his twin, Moto'shairi, if the opportunity presented itself. As Moyo had been taken by a vampire, Shairi had been kidnapped by an insane bystander for no reason but to cause more strife and pain for the troupe.
Yes, he had been returned safe to his family, but it was clear to anyone that the fire-maned trickster had been forever changed by whatever he'd gone through in the vampires' nest.
Grown and cloaked in the pelt of a large canine, Moyo sat in the sparse shade of a large tree, overlooking the lands where his family currently lived. His blink was slow as he suppressed a yawn. By the gods, he was so tired. Of course, he wasn't exhausted, not yet at least, but that didn't say much for his current state. Nights had been hard enough to deal with when he'd been trying to transition from nocturnal or even crepuscular to completely diurnal. The last thing he needed was to be plagued by nightmares when he tried to escaped the darkness without by retreating to the darkness within.
But no, it would appear that now only the sun was his escape from the demons that tormented him. If only there was a place where the sun never fell, where he could be forever surrounded by the light that kept him safe.
He shook the thoughts from his mind. He knew better, there was no such place, and least of all for a little b*****d like himself. It had been his fault, after all, his and Shairi's kidnappings. He had always been the one leading schemes and tricks, suggesting to sneak out. If it hadn't been for his stupid ideas, they wouldn't have even been out that night. Maybe, for everything he had done in his young life, he'd deserved some of what had happened. But not Shairi, never his younger twin.
But hadn't the gods had enough with balancing the scales?
Hadn't he been punished enough for what he'd done, what he'd let happen to his brother? But maybe that was it. Perhaps this was still his punishment, for putting his twin in danger time and again, and being useless in helping him when it really mattered. It wouldn't really have surprised him if that was the truth of it all.
A bird flying above drew his attention. What would it be like to have wings? To be able to fly away from all of ones problems?
What are you trying to pull? No one, not even the birds of the skies could fly far enough to escape their own nightmares. Worst of all, you clip a bird's wings and there was no escape at all. That's what he was, a bird trapped in a hell unimaginable with wings torn and bloodied. There was no reason to feel this way, or at least one could argue that there shouldn't be one. He had a mother and father who loved him, his grandfather, his sister and brothers. They should have been a fortification to his spirit, he should have leaned on them, shared his nightmares. But how could he? In the forefront of his mind was the profound guilt over everything that had happened. It had been his fault. The grief his parents suffered, the deaths in the war, Shairi's pain, his own nightmares, they were all his doing. The last thing he wanted to do was add to it. Worse, he'd learned in the worst way what happened when you weren't strong enough. He couldn't burden his family any more than he could let anyone ever again think he was weak.
His shoulders straightened from the slumped position they had fallen into. The exhaustion had made him forget himself for a brief moment. Weakness wasn't an option, no matter how tired he was, he wouldn't, couldn't show weakness.
It was what had set him apart from his cubhood self, even more than the size of his form. Long ago he had wanted to be like his mother and grandfather, a storyteller, an entertainer. The games he liked to play certainly lent merit to the thought. But his nightmares tore the ground away from him, pulling him into the vast darkness of the heavens.
He'd never understood that distinction, why it was that the warriors of the troupe were stars of heaven, while the entertainers, scouts, and caretakers were those of earth. In truth, he never understood the star part at all. He certainly didn't feel like one. Stars, especially those of the heavens (Were there any others?) were ethereal things, unobtainable and so far above mortals that it almost seemed arrogant to call oneself in their image. But he had learned to avoid arguing, was rare to even question others much less try to correct them.
His siblings had become entertainers, like his mother and grandfather. Liu had been the only one to join him in the fighting ranks, though he was a runner rather than a warrior. All of them, their hearts were so much softer than his own, at least in his mind. And, honestly, for that he was glad. Glad that none of them would ever be hurt in a conflict, that they would be safe and protected. Whereas he had taken up the mantle of warrior in the troupe, ever watchful, ever vigilant, ever...
He found his eyes had been closed for longer than they should have been for a mere blink; they snapped open faster than a crocodile's jaws snap shut. He should rest. Just go back to the dens, find someone to relieve him and catch what little sleep he could before nightmares stole in to plague him.
But, no. This was his duty, he wasn't so weak that he couldn't stand a little bit longer. Moyo looked to the sky. Already the sun was sinking towards the horizon. It wouldn't be long until the dusk patrol came to take his place. Then he could rest.
Named in part for the great-grandfather neither he nor his mother had ever known, Moyo was just a proud and stubborn, no matter how troubled he was. It would no doubt wear him out someday.
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