Narys

Chirp! Chirp!

The steady clip clopping of hooves on paved road fills the air, accompanied by the soft rustle of leaves in the gentle, warm wind. The air was pleasant, riding in the shade of tall fir trees to keep the sun off his back, and relaxing in the southern wind coming up from behind.

As I sit here beneath this tree, staring out at this desolate place above the Trestlepan, I can only wonder on the nature of fate itself once more.

What a turbulent few days, these past moments have been.

The roots weren’t very deep for the weeds in the garden. Sareva didn’t give them time to take hold, vigilantly tending the lavender she’d planted that spring. Keeping busy, it was what she needed, what she always did, especially in times like these. Otherwise…

Taraborn was brought out of his day dream when she winked at him. The young woman had caught his stare and offered a cheeky wink in response before turning to giggle with her friends, occasionally looking back at him. He smirks and digs his heels into his steed to pick the pace up a little. He had been riding through the town, up the main road through Bree towards the Prancing Pony when he spotted her.

There was something almost melancholy about the scene that lay before Dagramir’s sleepless eyes. Ashaia lay, as she always did, half of her body splayed out on top of him. Her leg draped over his, almost possessive in her sub-conscious. Her arm lay over his abdomen, and his arm lay over her own. Bare of clothes, naught but their bodies and souls left for each other to gaze upon.

It had been weeks and one dead half orc since Aallan last saw Dufr in the Lone Lands.

A rolled length of neat parchment, clearly expensive paper, denoting some form of wealth. Sealed only by a tied ribbon of crimson, the knot held down by a stamp of black wax. A coiled snake contained within the void-like circular impregnation. Upon unfurling the document, it would read:
 

Dearest Deorda,

The woman leaving Towerglan might have been an alarming sight to behold from a distance, leading a horse and cart from the town, the front of her skirt covered in blood with the bottom few inches torn off. Her expression was hollow, as if she didn’t fully take in her surroundings. One might have thought she’d been attacked by the look of her, but upon closer inspection he might see that none of the blood was hers, for she bore no wounds, and though the bottom of her dress had been ripped away, it had been done so carefully, a clean tear.

Just a couple of inches.

That is all it was, the gap between Narys and Taraborn, but for all it mattered it could have been the Belegaer. He lay there, awake deep in the night, looking at her sleeping form with blurry eyes as he tries to make sense of the storm of emotions within himself.