Snippets and Stories: (BP) The Darkest Night

Nyx's Gate. Lunaris's one cycle of absence, when the doors opened and the Stygian Seas flooded the Heavens as to blot out the celestial bodies themselves.

In the days leading up to the opening of Nyx's Gate, Lunaris would shrug off her genteel mantle and shine as the Azure Sun, that those under her starry veil may continue their Autumnal Harvest. And then, as if spent, would she then be concealed by the subsequent flood of primordial night, the Deluge shrouding the world in a lightless night and concealing the Lunar Lover in an impenetrable void that she may rest undisturbed.

The boundary between worlds was thinnest then, and during this Time all manner and shades of the phantasmal--monsters, eidolons, spectres, demons, seraphim, and more, sought passage. To cross the bridge between worlds.

The Week of Darkness came at the turn of the century, and though that year had but recently passed, Lunaris was wont to reminisce. Every year, in the same projected week of expectancy, the Keeper of Night bade her celestial retinue to hushed reverence, and it was during this Time that the light of night was most muted. Meek, as if teetering on the cusp of extinguishment, struggling to stay lit through the pervasive gloom that threatened to overtake the skies once more, as if the floodgate could barely contain the flood of the Stygian Seas.

Vye stared up at the inky sky where even the inception of the Week of Darkness left the scattered motes of stardust seeming but mottled speckles, dim even against the stark contrast of Lunaris's Veil.

A lonely, vast, and empty void, thick with a dense and suffocating gloom that blanketed and enveloped the world, wrapping it horizon to horizon. The very air itself seemed heavy, as if suffused with the despondency of burdens untold, yet tenaciously steadfast.

It was difficult to discern what those ruby eyes saw in the Heavens that fixated the Vale-haled Shol so, and they spoke naught a word, taking in the centennial week of night--the darkest nights of night--in silence. Lockes settled down beside them, and the young Shol for one welcomed their company, grateful as the other groomed his foliage and tucking his nose into the nook of the former Pillar's neck and shoulder.

A little ways off, Zeal observed in silence.

The exact nature of the communion of the Verdant children eluded him, for their language is unfathomable to those born of flesh and blood. Such were there differences--but the meaning itself was not lost by the limitations that divided their kind, and in their primordial tongue did the Seeker understand.

The ardent desire to return home. To have a home to return to. To belong to.

That was the beauty of Shols.

Even unspoken, it was something so inherent and universally understood.

It was Life itself, ingrained and etched into the very essence of their existence, the all too familiar and most starkly vivid of emotions.

Maroon eyes rose skyward, fiery and resolute, as if issuing a challenge to the Heavens--to challenge Fate itself, whatever hand they were dealt. And beside them, unwavering, the simple presence of the Alpione Shol. One who would accompany them on the path less traveled, and journeys untold.

And then Vye barked.

An exuberant burst of noise, so odd in its contrast with the reverent stillness. Such a whimsical, cheerful, and carefree sound. And how foolish the gloom seemed then in the glowing embers of the Shol's eyes.

Zeal started, straightening up as Vye swiveled around, staring in his direction.

Their eyes met, and Vye grinned, "I woke up tonight."

"A year ago." The Shol added, by way of explanation when met with the Seeker's blank stare.

Turning his gaze heavenward once more, voice warm, "It's thanks to Furzé that I'm alive."

It was under the cover of Nyx's Deluge that the Kismet Pod released the Bræmbel Shol. Thanks to the Lightless Sea, Vye had survived. Had it been any Time else--if it hadn't released him in the darkest hour, the pinnacle of the Stygian Seas--he'd have been sniffed out the moment he awoke.

And he said so.

Not in so many words, but the Seeker understood enough and returned the sentiment with contemplative silence, following his charge's gaze to the muted Celestial Retinue above.

The Kismet Seed.

Vye had spoken of it once. Back when the Bræmbel Shol had yet to assimilate the Sanctums, and could but manage a broken, stilted, speech.

From what he'd gathered, it was an arcane weave that was aetherically draining even for the children of the Verdance. A vessel nigh indestructible and impenetrable, capable of sealing and sustaining even the flow of aether within whilst gradually generating and accumulating its own stores much like a Shol themselves would. It was highly favored amongst the floral sentients as a Time capsule of sorts for its enduring quality and immaculate preservation of content. And for its memory recall. The Bræmbel Shol hadn’t elaborated on that.

It was dormant within this ligneus pod that Vye slumbered for nigh on a century, nourished by the passive reserves. An impervious and protective shell that safeguarded its precious burden within from the outside world. Nothing could get in.

Or out.

"Do you regret it?"

Still. He wanted to add. Nonetheless, Vye seemed to catch what he needn’t say.

“Back then.” Vye started, "I was powerless.”

And Zeal observed that it was with a calm, quiet, confidence that the Shol broached this topic. Not the indifferent kind, the kind of aloofness many used to put distance between themselves and trauma.

“They came, hidden under the cover of Nyx's Gate.” Just as Vye himself had done a year ago. A closed sigh, and a small smile, as if engaging a conversation he’d repeated already many Times over, though Zeal knew this to be the first instance between them.

“Nothing I could have done would’ve made a difference." His voice is soft, and in a matter of fact way did Vye state, “If I’d stayed I would’ve just died.”

He'd survived the Harvest Moon.

The sole survivor.

“There’s nothing to regret.”

It wouldn’t have made a difference. There was no point lamenting what simply couldn’t be.

His Heartseed quivered.

He didn’t blame Zeal. Not for the Scythe his guardian wielded, nor for pointing out his helplessness.

Do you wish you could’ve stayed behind? Could’ve made a difference?

Of course. But what did wanting do? None of it changed what’s past.

In the silence that had followed, Zeal at first thought it to be anguish, but the Lowland Shol’s posture was lax, shoulders loose and open-stanced.

Vye was comfortable and warm to conversation, welcomed it even.

But just as comfortable if not more so, is the silence. And so Zeal kept to his peace, and Vye welcomed that too.

How odd their circumstances. It was the young Shol who had implored the Seeker for a contract. A desperate little thing that needed, depended upon, the protection of another. Zeal would not be here otherwise. Would not be involved at all had the Shol not beseeched him.

The very presence of the Seeker attested to the weaknesses he couldn’t overcome.

Shameless in the eyes of others, perhaps, but what did their esteem matter to one whom found a friend in none of them? Besides, it was as fact. Vye took no shame in such acknowledgements. Took no insult nor denial when it came to his shortcomings, harboring no desire and seeing little point in refuting what was fact.

Just as a problem couldn’t be fixed without first knowing what the problem is, it’s only by being aware of one’s own weaknesses that one could then overcome them. After all, you can’t defend yourself if you didn’t know what you were defending yourself from.

For Vye who had known only his Circle, the same one he was now bereft of, he lacked both the strength and worldliness to contend with the enemy.

Without a ring, it was sheer folly.

Entire Circles had perished at their hands, and the Bræmbel Shol was but a Coty still, yet to even shed his downy plumes. A mere juvenile of his kind. Vulnerable, soft, and helpless.

Maturation is a passive process for Shols, in which a portion of the aether that replenishes the world is instead diverted to and stored in their near endless reservoir. Through this slow accumulation do they gradually grow into their abilities, honing them over the course of their entire lifetime. There was no rushing such growth.

But Vye had neither the thorns nor the luxury of Time, and he wasn’t fool enough to chance a dance with the beckoning hands of Fate.

The Mandragora’s Shriek would not ward off all--and certainly not the Reapers.

He wouldn’t be strong enough, and well. It only took one.

So in the wake of the Lightless Sea did he run.

Fleet-footed, nimble and cunning. The Reapers would not find trace of him. Vye never gave them a chance to.

He ran, and ran, and ran, searching.

Through a world that was of his enemy’s. Enemies that would kill him if ever they should catch him.

But they had to catch him first.

Things weren’t as they were back then. He knew the face of his enemy, had a lead in a chase the world long thought finished.

He would survive.

And for a Time he was content with running and searching, listening for the Heart’s Song.

But wherever he went, all that remained were the haunting echoes, scorched fairy rings and ash. The ever lingering stench of death and decay. None of his lowland brethren had survived the rising of the Harvest Moon, came the pitiful revelation. The realization of all that was never to return. Perhaps elsewhere, farther still.

He needed to expand his search past the Vales.

Swift as he was, and clever though he may be, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, he realized, to simply stay hidden and run. To survive.

The ghostly whispers of the Heart’s Song were so very faint, and the land steeped in torment. Through the din, it was all he could do to pick out the scant pieces of its passing, but the more he listened, the more certain he became.

There was another. Not the false mimicry of a Reaper, but a fellow Child of the Verdance. One who sang the same lonesome and plaintive song, though he caught but the hushed sigh of its passing.

How his Heart trembled. Another of his kind! Albeit one whose song was burdened so. Suffocating, as if merely the act of drawing in a breath taxed them of selfsame life it sustained. So much pain that his own ached in the wake of its singular chorus.

Can you hear me? I’m here, I’m here!

But try as he might to reach them through the Heart’s song, never once did his kin return his desperate pleas. Of course, looking back, it was clear as Solaris’s blessing. Lockes had been severed, having long since lost the light and color from their eyes. Alone for over a century, wandering with naught but the shades in the shifting fog of Whitedew, lost to nostalgia and wounds with neither form nor salve. They could neither touch the Prismatic Arc nor hear his voice. Nor would they try, convinced that naught remained.

How he had fretted then.

Were they fading? Perhaps they were ill situated, unable to return his call or triangulate their position to him. If they could not come to him, if they could not communicate.

He had to hurry.

Before the Heart’s Song gave out. So faint in its echo that he knew not whence it came, only vaguely that it was in the direction of the snowy peaks that flanked the valley. Far to the North, past the lifeless fortress of stone where the aether trickled thin, in sparse rivulets. This would not be like the vales where the very land breathed of aether. It wasn’t a simple stretch where he could keep to the outskirts. Nay, what lay beyond was entirely of the Sanctums.

He would have to face them.

But a fight unarmed, was hardly a fight at all.

And so he decided to whet his blade with the stones of their foundation.

Resolved, he snuck into the rural purlieus, observing them day by day, singing whenever he could and pleading with the Stars above that his song may yet carry warmth and comfort to his kin.

Just a little longer. Wait for me! I’ll be there soon!

Learned their tongue, their culture, their structure. He learned to clothe himself as they did, to weave the fabric and aether both that none would see him for what he was.

He learned the streets, what to avoid, and who he could reel in. To barter, and collect these strange metallic chips that they so coveted.

He needed someone. Anyone really, who could protect him. Keep him safe from all the dangers both those known, and unknown, to him.

And then one day, he caught wind of something familiar--Zeal.

Foolish though it seemed, it felt like a sign, and so he sought out the Seeker. And found him.

Not his Zeal, but Zeal.

With hardened Heart, Vye took a leap. Implored them. To be his sword and shield. To fight for him. To the Seeker did he entrust his care.

To bleed for him.

And bleed he did.

His gaze settled on his faithful protector a ways off. Their arms were crossed, idle gaze on the constellations above.

An inaudible sigh, and Vye turned around. But the dark opaque pools offered no insight, and not for the first Time Vye wondered what lay obscured behind those glassy black pools that stared back at him, silent and waiting.

According to the Archives of the Sanctums and drawn from behavioral observation by the White Coats, Shols were once believed to be creatures of the Hive Mind, following some undecipherable signal. Not that Vye could fault them. To Fleshlings their way must have seemed so very alien. Their silent communication, or how so very synchronized and complex their maneuvers, as if they were all of the same mind, or were perhaps one consciousness extended across multiple vessels. Vye had a perplexed chuckle at that notion.

In fact it was neither, though he supposed he could see how their socialization could be confused as the former. Really though, they weren’t too different from those of the Sanctums in the sense that they were all individuals in their own right, each colorful in their own identity and motive.

Like Fleshlings they communicated, albeit through different channels and different means. If anything, it was the speed and efficiency of their communication that differed. Whereas Fleshlings took much Time to communicate, which in itself was often ineffective and prone to misinterpretation, Shols were able to convey intricacies in mere moments.

Fleshlings may on occasion wear their Heart on their sleeves, but Shols identified and knew one another by their Heart. Laying bare their deepest thoughts to one another, the children of the Verdance were in near constant communication. Pheromones, body language, vocalizations, floral aromas, displays, and coloration, the Heart’s Song, the Prismatic Arc. It was as breathing, practically subconscious, requiring very little effort and a nigh momentaneous passing of information. They knew one another inside and out and kept nothing from one another. There was no reason too, for the floral children found very little strange, and even then accepted it with nary a blink. The more Shols present, the less strange a concept is, anything new swept into the din of banter, a momentary spark of strange and nothing more. For strange was good, it was different. Innovative. Interesting. Exciting even.

They kept one another constant companionship, from the moment of their conception to the day they too returned to the Verdance.

Which was why it was odd that Lockes had closed themselves off so completely.

They could no longer touch the Heart’s Song or Prismatic Arc, this much was true, but that they would seal off all outgoing communication from their end… When Vye “spoke” Lockes would acknowledge the sentiment, and respond in kind, but that was as far as their exchanges went. Unlike before their Heart’s Song was silenced, pheromones and vocalizations near nonexistent. Even their posture and visage were a blank slate.

Vye was no stranger to the horrors of the Harvest Moon risen, but that Lockes would be so withdrawn was… unusual. Not that there was anything normal about their situation. But was it to spare Vye the burden of knowing? Of seeing what Lockes sees, of experiencing what they felt even now?

Maybe it was because the Heart’s Song had been such an integral part of their communication, and the Prismatic Arc their world, and to have been stripped of both was a loss too great to bear.

Or maybe it was because they were the only two left, and Lockes simply wasn’t interested.

Vye was confused.

And it must have shown, for the Bluepine leaned in to nuzzle his foliage, smoothing out the tangled vines.

The fragrant, soothing, scent of pine exuded from their ruff, a delicate scent that put Vye at ease.

Briefly, Vye contemplated asking outright, but stopped himself. Lockes would share when they were ready. Both of them.

Until then, their company was more than Vye could ever ask for. Both of them.

Again, he looked to Zeal.

The whispering breeze swirled around him like a lover’s touch, tousling his hair and caressing the wound of the not so distant struggle in the Alps, leaning in as if to whisper sweetly in his ear a conversation not to be shared.

Vye needn’t the wind to regale the tale of each and every one. Truly, he was fortunate to have one who not only stood by his side, but fought for him. And in his name bled.

It wasn’t often that Zeal was hurt, a scrape or bruise perhaps. But their most recent scuffle hadn’t been so fortunate. He was mostly healed now, but it had been a Reaper.

One that had fed.

Vye resisted reaching for the most recent of these. Even from across the fire he could feel the corruption of the Reapers gnawing at the Seeker. But Zeal was of far stronger constitution, and such things that were fatal to mortals were not so grave. Besides, Zeal wouldn’t like him fussing.

Still, it looked painful, an angry red that was laid bare, exposed to the elements. Had to be, for the taint of the scythe had to be diffused before the wound could heal properly.

Again, an inaudible sigh, and that nostalgic touch draws away to give him an encouraging nudge.

Go on.

The Bræmbel Shol hesitates, but this Time more insistently comes the same nudge, and the earthy scent of pine a soothing reassurance.

And so with a backwards glance at pools devoid of all but single-minded encouragement, he clambered to his feet.

Zeal glanced down as a small hand came to rest on his. First one, then another. The young Shol’s hands passed over a particularly tender spot, though he pays it no heed. He didn’t mind so much, a stubborn cut acquired from their struggle with a Reaper Lockes had called “Honey”.

The Bluepine insisted that the nickname came about from the rich golden hue of his eyes, a striking feature, rather than as a term of endearment. Honey was such a rare treat up in the high altitudes of the Alps, so it was understandable. Still, that the severed Shol was cross with him for being possessed of the knowledge of the association and implications to such a term only made it more amusing.

But Zeal couldn’t help but feign ignorance, much to Lockes’s chagrin.

It had been an unexpectedly adorable name for such a dangerous character, and to hear Lockes call it so seriously… to say it undermined the gravity of the situation would be putting it lightly.

Even “Honey” had given a light cough into a hand, his cheeks dusted with a pink powder that came from more than just their long duration spent in snowdrift.

Zeal snorted, a sound Vye mistook for distress.

It mattered not that the Bræmbel Shol’s touch was feather light, or that it was but a slight nick. A Reaper’s Scythe stung with a vengeance deeper than the Abyssal Sea, and the inflicted wound didn’t simply maim the flesh, but mutilated and drained the very essence of the living that it may spread, much like an infection, a festering wound of the soul. As if it hungered still, did the gash consume more and more of the afflicted. Would’ve, had it not been for Zeal’s own tainted blood. Instead it was more or less a belated, albeit irritable, recovery, but nothing more. In a rare moment was the Seeker thankful for the Scythe that lent him immunity to his own kind.

Vye took the Seeker’s much larger palm in his own, thin tendrils of a tender green braided themselves as they wrapped around his finger. They extended down the length of Zeal’s palm to dress the wound, and a dainty bloom blossomed.

Initially, Zeal had been bound by contract to protect him. An exchange for “Liquid Gold”. The precious life-giving nectar of his kind.

But the contract had long since been nulled, abolished by Vye’s own hand, and still Zeal remained by his side.

Vye inspected the finished floral ring, before pressing his cheek to the Heart of Zeal’s palm, “Thank you.”

One day he would be able to fend for himself, to stand his ground against the Reapers. But that day wasn’t today--and until that day came, Zeal, faithful Zeal. Loyal Zeal. Would be by his side. Would protect him.

Zeal admired the garland after regaining his hand. It was slight, but the Seeker could feel it. A small fount of aether welled up in the flower, siphoning into the Reaper’s wound. A countermeasure to the cursed mark. And gradually, the dull ache receded. Truth be told it bothered him not, such discomforts were but minor inconveniences. But it’s the thought that counts, and he would show appreciation for the gesture nonetheless.

What a bother.

Zeal lifted his arm. An invitation Vye was all but happy to take. The Brambel Shol pushed himself to snuggle into Zeal’s side, eyes slipping shut as they basked in the warmth emanating from his guardian’s body.

Those of flesh carried within them a pulsing ember, and in their veins coursed the fiery essence of the Solar Warden himself. A blazing, molten, red.

Zeal would’ve been content to keep watch over the obscured stars, but a voice piped up.

“They’ll be back.”

Vye wriggled, worming his way under Zeal’s arm so he was laying half in his lap. The Coty smiled up at him, “I’ll see them again someday. I know it.”

And the Seeker knew without asking.

They had left without the young Bræmbel Shol, forgotten to bring him with them when they left.

They would be back for the one they left behind, waiting just over the Stars.

Over the Stars.

Somehow he got an inkling that the entirety of their travels had in no small part been out of sheer boredom. An act to pass the Time. Or did the Bræmbel Shol perchance truly believe that his brethren would come back for him? With Vye, it was hard to tell.

But Vye smiled up at him--such a simplistic and happy smile--and he found he could believe naught else, but that they’ll be back. Vye would see them again. Someday.

Had not the Heart to say otherwise to one who knew full well their situation, had seen it for himself, only to stand in defiance of all that is. To challenge Fate itself and walk a path of adversity.

And again his skin prickled, and he turned to catch the disapproving eyes of the dark Shol upon him.

And there he saw a message he was even less keen to answer.

It wasn’t much later that Vye retired proper, curling up in Zeal’s bedroll. Zeal himself was about to follow, but their silent evening companion had finally deigned to grace him with their company, and blocked his path.

“Tell him the truth. You owe him that much.”

But the Seeker brushed past the Alpione Shol. Not especially difficult given the small stature of the children of the forest, “It'll only make things worse.”

An outstretched hand barred his path once more, “Vye has been nothing but transparent with you. He believes in you, cares about you. It’s only right that you do the same.”

Zeal sidestepped him once more, crossing the firelight in brisk strides.

“His entire Circle is gone.” the same melodic voice drawled lazily.

And suddenly, the Hells forsaken Shol was in front of him again. Dark pools regarded the Seeker a touch coolly, and Zeal returned it much the same.

Lockes advanced, drawing themselves to their full height, which wasn’t much, Zeal idly noted. And certainly, as there wasn’t any real threat behind it and the Shol wasn’t using their intimidation, it was almost comical. This diminutive creature, fronds puffed up with indignation, and rearing up as tall as they could go… and still only coming up to his thigh. “He awoke to the utter darkness of the Absolute Night, still smelling of ash and flame, to a once verdant forest--his home and all he’s ever known--razed to the ground, charred so severely, that even the stone he stood upon was glass. Does that mean nothing to you?”

When Zeal offered no response, and Lockes took it as a sign to continue, “He needs to know for what lies ahead.” and somehow, despite coming no higher than mid-thigh, Zeal got the sense that the Bluepine was looking down at him.

“That is exactly why he doesn’t need to know.“

They circled him slowly, tendrils trailing behind in great lengths, as if to cage him. “It is on the steps past that we forge the path forward.”

“With a past such as his, it is better off forgotten. Build anew, as he has already done.”

The severed Shol completed their circle, leaving Zeal in the middle of their webbed fronds. Not that it served as anything more than a moral boundary. Lockes wanted a word with the Reaper, and they would have it. Yet if the Seeker so chose they could leave by force, a simple show of force, not even the swing of their blade, was all it took. And they both knew that too.

Would you resolve this through such means, Reaper? Resort to violence whensoever it’s convenient?

Zeal was beginning to understand why Shols preferred their silent communion. Words for misleading, ambiguous, and full of deceit.

It was in the silence that the Bluepine lay bare their true thoughts. The severed Shol was yet plagued with skepticism, and trust they did not deem the Reaper worthy of. Not yet.

But it was that unspoken plea in their dark pools that he could not yet bear the burden of.

Prove me wrong. Please.

Someday he would have to square with that. But not tonight. And so he averted his gaze--and heard the soft exhalation that carried neither the venom of Grudge nor disapproval. And somehow that was heavier still.

“What he doesn’t need--” and here he gave the Bluepine a pointed look, “--is for people to be dredging up the past.”

The Bluepine eyes narrowed to darkened slits, "A past that isn’t yet behind him? That can’t be when he walks it? The broken shards are yet scattered about, a reminder of all that’s been lost. Pieces that resurface every Time he thinks he’s free." Scoffing they shook their head slowly, a gesture of tired exasperation. “You’re shackling him to the past.”

“You would have me cut the wound open to bleed again.” His lips were drawn into a fine line.

“These hidden truths will only cut him deeper when they finally do come to light. Would you rather he hurt and heal now, or have it come at a crucial juncture when he may yet be caught off guard? Or worse still, undermine his faith in you? Nay Reaper. I would have you put it to rest. How is he to put it behind him when every Time he thinks the wound has closed, that he’s finally free, he steps on yet another of these hidden truths, hm?”

“If you’re so adamant of putting this to rest, you tell him.”

There was a momentary calm, though tensions remained, and the sidelong glance Lockes threw him spoke of many things, “Whether I like it or not, he needs you. The forthcoming days will demand no less than his absolute faith in you.” Impassive black eyes found his, “You are the one who it needs to come from. At the very least I would not stand idly by to watch the shards be plunged deeper by such avertable misery. Pluck out those pieces that he may finally lay them to rest.”

The Reaper’s look said otherwise.

“Tell him.” they insisted again, “It’ll hurt less.”

“And lesser still as it is.”

“And how well did that work for you last Time, hm?” They stopped, facing the Seeker at an angle and flipping their hand up in a matter-of-fact way. Though the melody hadn’t left their voice, there was a certain bite to it. “Surely you learned something from your little escapade in the Alps. Or perhaps you would rather he hear it elsewhere. At a crucial juncture mayhaps, when there’s a Crier hot on your tail?”

“Enough.” From Zeal’s tense shoulders, arms crossed stiffly , it was answer enough. The Seeker answered gruffly, “He’ll never find out.”

“You truly think you can keep from him that which his very life is interwoven with? Every path leads back to here.”

“I can. And I will.” was the resolute answer.

“And yet.” the dark Shol gave a wry chuckle, a harsh note of dissonance in their lilting melody, “I did.”

“It doesn’t matter what you know.”

And to this, the Alpione Shol leaned in close enough that their whisper carried naught on even the passing Zephyr.

“How.” Zeal breathed as he drew back slowly.

But if Lockes heard they didn’t deign to answer. Instead stating, “It’ll hurt less hearing it from you then by Fate’s cruel hand.”

The Bluepine sighed heavily. A weary sound that wrought with it the shuddering breath of Father Winter himself. As if the Wintry Patriarch had seen an early return, and the land slowly fell to slumber as it began its gradual disassociation from Life, “Show him the glass shards before he steps on them. Your misplaced kindness is but masked cruelty. Spare him this grief, Reaper.” Lockes sighed, “Rest assured. He will not soon turn his back on a friend. Show him that you are one.”

“I'm not.” The Reaper wouldn’t meet those dark unseeing pools, and the smile that graced the Alpione Shol was almost forbearing. But they offered no comfort. And that perhaps, was of greatest comfort.

"An excuse to fall short." the dark Shol chuckled, their fronds withdrawing, "Keep telling yourself that." the Alpione shol pulled from their retracted fronds a small stone, the size of a marble perhaps, and pressed it into Zeal’s hand.

And with those parting words they tossed a flippant wave of farewell over their shoulder, and took to their makeshift burrow beneath the roots of a nearby oak.

Unlike Vye who had taken to the bedroll and found comfort in the Seeker’s warmth, the severed Shol themselves were reluctant to welcome and assimilate the ways of the kind that had very nearly ended them.

They would carry what little was left of that which they held dear, but with all that burdened them still, there wasn’t room left in their Heart to greet them with open arms.

Zeal stared at the pulsing stone in his hand. There was something powerfully nostalgic about it though he knew that he'd not seen such an object before. Yet something was so very off. Not obviously so, nay. It was more subtle. Insidious.

He’d have to ask Lockes how they came by such a thing. Would've, but of course now that he wanted to talk, they were nowhere to be seen, having conveniently retired. Figures.

Zeal glared at the burrow entrance.

Bloody Shols.