#vath

A big brown eye swiveled toward the Vath Birdkeeper quizzically, then went back to its meal. 

“You have the feathers and the wings, but you cannot fly,” the Vath Birdkeeper explained. That eye swiveled to them once more, a bit more balefully.

“Perhaps that is rude,” the Vath Birdkeeper amended, chastened. It moved its claw from the bird’s flank to its wing, smoothing down the ruffled feathers there. “You must forgive us for saying so. Indeed, please forgive us. You do not need to fly. For that we have our kongamatos.”

The chocobo relaxed, soothed by its master’s hand, and with a soft trill nudged the Vath Birdkeeper’s head with its own. The Vath Birdkeeper in turn clicked its mandibles, relieved. These birds were very understanding creatures, it had come to understand, but it had also come to recognize the guilt and sorrow it felt when upsetting them. Such feelings were alien when it was part of the Onemind.

“The hunters tell me we must choose a name for you,” the Vath Birdkeeper told its friend. “We find this difficult—very difficult. We have only just found our own name. We do not know how to name others yet.”

The current bunch of gysahl greens was now down to a nub no bigger than a large fruit. The chocobo tossed the last mouthful into the air and caught it, its gullet working as it slid down its throat. The Vath Birdkeeper patted it, impressed.

“The Vath come to these decisions because of a skill. A very special skill. The Storyteller, The Kintamer, The Deftarm.”

The chocobo chirped. The Vath Birdkeeper found these strange, flightless birds to be very good listeners.

“We hope you will like the name we give you. Since you cannot choose it yourself, we are told. But we do not know much about you yet. Only that you are a cho-co-bo. But all your kind share this name, yes?”

Another chirp. The chocobo craned its neck around and tucked its beak into its feathers, grooming. 

The Vath Birdkeeper nodded. “Such is the way of the Onemind. It is the way of the Vath to be individual, and this is what we wish for you, too.”

The red earth of the Forelands was taking on an even more fiery hue, and the shadows were growing long. As its companion went about its after-meal preening, the Vath Birdkeeper reached up and adjusted the saddle and its straps, checking that it was resting comfortably and securely. 

“Something you are skilled at…” the Vath Birdkeeper mused, next checking the straps on the simple pack and bedroll behind the saddle’s cantle. “You are very skilled at eating these greens. Indeed, very skilled.” The Birdkeeper peered around to where its companion’s head was still tucked. “Maybe we will give you the name Greenseater,” it ventured. 

The chocobo lifted its head, stretched its neck forward, and gave a short, shrill retort.

The Vath Birdkeeper winced. “I see. You do not like the name. Well, we are–” it tilted its head, hesitant, “I am–not called the Namegiver, and it seems this is for a reason.” 

It gently inspected the reins on its companion’s beak. “But you and I will come to an amicable solution, yes? An amicable solution.”

The chocobo bobbed its head. As the Vath Birdkeeper stood there, lost in the dilemma of a suitable name, its companion scratched its talons against the earth restlessly and prodded at the dirt.

“You are also very good at finding things in the soil. Perhaps… Earthdigger.”

The chocobo eyed them.

The Vath Birdkeeper’s shoulders slumped and its head bowed. “We will think on it further while we are on the road. Come.”

The chocobo obligingly knelt, and up into the saddle the Vath Birdkeeper swung. Its feet still scrabbled a bit at the stirrups, but it was careful not to accidentally scratch its friend, as it had done the first time the kind hunters at Tailfeather had tried to show them how to ride. 

“You know the gysahl green, but do you know about the others?” the Vath Birdkeeper asked, as they left the shelter of the forest for the open expanse of the Wastes. It nudged the chocobo’s flank and gently tugged on the reins, directing attention to a cluster of sprigs poking out of the ground a few paces away. Though the Wastes were very dry, the long leaves shone as if they were wet with rain.

“This one is called silver dew. The dragons find it noisome, yes, very noisome. We light our censers to keep them away.” The Vath Birdkeeper looked to the open sky, clicking its mandibles. “We appear to dragons a tasty snack. A tasty, savory snack. Crunchy on the outside, gooey on the inside. We find this thought distressing, so very distressing.” 

The chocobo shifted its gait, sensing its rider’s unease. A boon of these birds was how well they came to understand both words and nonverbal gestures, but the Vath Birdkeeper had to remind itself now to still its nervous clicking. Being able to understand a Vath’s feelings, the Birdkeeper thought, was not always helpful for either of them. 

“We will protect you from the dragons with this noisome silver dew,” it said, patting its companion’s neck. “They will not take you for a snack if you smell of it.”

Its companion whistled happily, and although the bird’s strides lengthened as they traveled, the pace remained leisurely. Similarly more at ease, not least of which because of a sky unclouded by any Dravanians looking for a meal, the Vath Birdkeeper took in its surrounds with a more inquisitive eye. 

It had always known these lands, but the idea of stopping and looking at this place for its beauty–or for anything that wasn’t food or a threat to the Onemind–remained new, even moons on. Every day, it found new things to simply look at, and marvel. It was glad its boon companion also had an appetite for the sights of the world, for even short journeys tended to become twice as long with the Vath Birdkeeper in the saddle.

The sun was only halfway behind the mountains, its light slanting long, and so the Birdkeeper consoled itself that the Vath of the guild could at least not scold them for arriving home from their journey after dark again.

The setting sun’s orange hues reflected off of the Vath’s carapace, but its companion seemed to simply absorb the color, lending its feathers a fiery glow.

“Sunkeeper?” the Vath Birdkeeper asked, surprised by the serendipity of inspiration. “Your feathers shine like the sun, they are so very golden and beautiful. Like you have captured the rays in your coat.

“If you do not mind sharing part of a name,” it added. “The hunters share names sometimes. They have a special word for it. We think it is ser-names. They put them in the front on some occasions, as with ‘Ser Jantellot.’ It is clearly respectful, yes, very respectful. But we have noticed that the ones who share names placed at the end are very close, like family.”

The Birdkeeper’s companion did something unusual then: it wiggled, its feathers puffed out not with displeasure or anxiety but with pride.

“Kweh!” it trilled.