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[Xana]

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Try as she might, Xana was unable to find that wayside swing that had brought her so much joy. Eventually she gave up, of the mind that it simply wasn't meant to be found again now, if ever, and accepted that the pleasant memory of the joy it brought would have to be savored and not repeated. At least yet, she kept reminding herself. However, such thoughts didn't quite stop her from riding without any particular destination through the many meadows and valleys across the lands. This was a wonderful source of contentment, this riding and languishing as she saw fit, always keeping an eye out for that elusive swing. The problem was, as she rode, she thought.

Time seemed to be passing at an alarming rate. And with that came the many crazy things going on in her world, the gypsy world, and the world at large. Sometimes it seemed as if the world had, simply, gone mad.

The branch of the family that was closest related to herself and her nephew were frantic. The seers, soothsayers, and wise-women could no longer 'feel or hear' Shalcross, despite Merrique's protests that everything was fine and that he was just out sowing his wild oats. At least, that was the story Xana got second- and third-hand when she tried to get a straight story from anybody.

She must be crazy, thought Xana. If the maman can't detect him, something is wrong, terribly and horribly wrong. Doesn't Merrique know this?

It seemed that every time she stopped at the main camp, those magical women were huddled together, speaking in frantic hushed tones. Did they not stop to think that the birth of Arahim's child, at this very camp, signified the replacement of a male life lost? After all, that was the way of things. Wasn't it?

More troubling, was the fact that she stopped to visit her sister, only to find nothing more than a vacant lot. Apparently, for whatever reason, Merrique packed up her household and . . . and what? The handful of times she'd seen her sister at the camps had given her little or no indication such a dramatic thing was forthcoming.

Xana looked up through the trees, whose beautiful green canopies would soon be shed as the days continued their march toward winter. She noted the sun's location and made a serious decision--probably the first real and decent one in months--and turned in the direction of a moongate, giving the horse a little slap with her walking stick to encourage speed. Once there, she thought, she would come into Luna and ride south to Sanctus. In those moments she decided it was time to have a long talk with Arahim, and set some truths out despite the years of being ordered to hold her silence. Though she did not know exactly where he resided, she figured the kingdom was only so big, and that eventually she would find his home. If he was not there she would return to the camp he'd been spending so much time at of late. She begged fate to work with her.

After all, this conversation couldn't be held at the camp. Or any camp, for that matter.
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An artist is a creature driven by demons ~Faulkner