Atlantic Roleplay Community Boards

[Arahim]

---

The white wolf of Winter had not yet bared his throat, and His chill breath still rode the night time air, reminding the dawning Spring of His power, and eventual return.

Scraps of cloud, wispy and ghostlike, streaked the lonely spaces between the stars above a deep, dark green world impossibly small when viewed from afar. Dancing it's circular dance in a vastness that few took time to think upon. A pebble, lost in the bed of some cosmic river, slowly eroding into distant memory.

Without lantern, without torch, Arahim stood pensively in those small hours just outside of daybreak in a rich garden on the land he onced owned in Sanctus.

The sound of falling waters from the many fountains, and the hypnotic hiss of wind through leaves seemed to be the only noise in all of creation at this very instant.

He still wore his new suit from the evening's festivities, despite having left hours ago. The feeling of poignant loneliness stuck upon him, despite leaving a crowd of so many happy faces.

Smoothing his doublet, Arahim walked through the rows of flowers and shrubs slowly, imagining that the sky above him, must be the same sky above her, and if that could be so, his Sylvan was not so very far away.

"She mustn't lose her way," he thought to himself helplessly, stopping at a small Yew tree, far from maturity. Remembering a day he relived so often, so many years ago, and just yesterday.

His hand slipping unconsciously to the silver chain upon his throat, and clutching the medallion it held, he stared at the tree, hearing it's whispers even above the sighing of the night's breeze.

Pulling the necklace depicting Sylvan's St.Michael carefully over his head, Arahim hesitated. It had never left his neck in the time since it had been gifted to him. And while not empty, he felt immediately diminished without its reassuring touch.

Leaving the necklace to catch the song of sky and star on the low branches of the tree, Arahim made for home. Content he had left his marker for Sylvan to follow.

In the morning, he would leave for Minoc and what answers awaited him. If any.

[Sylvan Sherwood]

---

It was with a combination of anger and defeat that Sylvan removed the medal from the small tree. She clenched the item hard enough that later, when she opened her fist, there would be a perfect imprint of the saint on her palm.

The first question entering her mind was, How could he? and that was rapidly followed by You deserve this, you know.

At this point, it hadn't occurred to Sylvan that the yew tree may have been a silent message. The message she received was one of hurt and abandonment, only it was unclear on just who was guilty of the latter.

Head down, Sylvan turned and headed for her home in the mountains with the intent to just wait. To see.