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[Arahim]

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Arahim rose, slipped out of bed, and dressed without a word well before the sun rose. The unassuming glow of the fireplace his only light. Cold gripped him immediately, without warning, once he was bereft of the benefits of his thick blankets. The simple act of standing, wracking his body with an onset of shivering that took several long moments to master.

Mouth tight, fists clenched at his sides, he made no sound and waited for the fit to pass, and then went about the business of gathering a few items. Resolute in the idea that solitude seemed best, and that he would not be gone overlong.

Careful not to wake his two guests, he slowly closed the heavy oak door behind him, freezing in place with every creak of hinge on wood no matter how small or short in duration. Certain that just one more would wake them both.

Padding barefoot downstairs, Arahim paused and cocked his head to one side before lacing up his boots. Content his departure would go unnoticed for the now, he stepped out into the star-dappled night, and walked a good distance through the forest towards the city of Trinsic. Stopping mid-way across a narrow marble bridge, he produced the rune that would take him where he wanted to be, and went.

[Arahim]

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Dawn.

While most of the world slept, unconsciously awaiting the rebirth of things safe and familiar, those whose time was marked by brushes with the divine stood alone in the dark, and watched for change. Bore singular witness to Day breaking fine lines through Night's dusky embrace. Spiderwebbing black glass curtains until the disharmonious marriage of void and light burst over an existence breathless with anticipation.

Arahim revelled in the subtle chaos.

The first slanting rays of a new day poured molten gold over the blanket of wildflowers strewn about the Shrine in every direction. A thick, heady tide of gently swaying colors haloed and abuzz with a life not quite its own, but lent to it by the soft glow creeping above the horizon, and diffused through leaf and bough. Scant flutters of shadow adding depth, and a sense of contrast.

Stark silent stone rose from the dew laden grass. Dour in comparison to its surroundings, but not bleak.

Grey.

Enduring.

Ringed by eight waist high pylons, and open to the sky, and trees above, the Shrine of Sacrifice was set in a great depression a few feet lower than the land around it. Urns and tall vases held all manner of flower and shrub. Some newly placed, some dry and dead. Three walls crowded around a man-sized ankh. The back wall adorned by a well kept banner of mauve and yellow.

Blood wept from the granite symbol of Life, steady, and continuous. Pooling over the flagstones. Permeating the many cracks and crevasses therein.

Here, with practiced solemnity, Arahim steeped his boots in red as he approached. Fastiduously stepping around the many gold coins left scattered on the ground.

It was not for him to disturb what others had left behind.

[Arahim]

---

Touching his fingertips to the free flow of warm crimson, Arahim placed his hand lightly upon the ankh before him. Closing his eyes, he whispered the mantra, and centered himself. Recounting the tolls he had paid to make his way. To make a difference.

Putting a number to the scars he carried on his flesh.

Recalling the faces of those lost to him.

Hearing voices of past and present.

Hearing what echo his name now made.

Around him, the refrain of a new day sang, different, always different, but calming. Verses of promise, but not certainty.

He would ride hard tonight, whether he won or lost. He would make an accounting of himself, and he would keep the memory. For when tonight's contest is at it's end, Arahim would still seek what tomorrow held for him.

And that would be enough.