North Star: Prologue - Bad Start

Prologue: Bad Start

Truth be told, Rain wasn't fond of winter. The breezy weather was pleasant, certainly, but she always had to bundle up. Moreover, it was wet and damp everywhere, they couldn't sit on the grass or play games on the field during the cooler seasons with all the water and mud. Not that she minded the dirt, it was the cleaning up part that bothered her.

She hugged herself, leaning into and bracing against the strong winds that shrieked around her. By and by the school disappeared behind her and the roads gradually grew wider.

 The skies were already darkening by the time she had reached home, and the beginning of stars twinkling in the sky. They winked at her and she giggled, waving back. It was around then that she noticed a single light growing larger.

It was a falling star.

How odd. There were no recent forecasts of Starfell, and for a single star alone to fall.

She chased after the falling star into the woods. The encroaching darkness of dusk bothered her little, for she knew the woods well, following the paths she knew by Heart.

She ran until reaching a clearing, set aglow with a brilliant light as the star descended. Its sheer radiance blinded her before she sought shelter behind a tree, covering her eyes with a sleeve. Despite seeing stars mere moments before, the light didn't feel harsh, and soon enough she peeked out from behind the trunk.

There stood the Northstar, though she was too young to recognized the constellation that surrounded him. His body emitted a gentle light, a radiance that was somehow frosty and somber in its pallor. Bathed in its glow, she stepped closer, mesmerized.

The Northstar turned to her, and his eyes were as cold as the light emanating from him. As she padded over, he straightened up, shoulders back and head held high with the dignity that was entailed of his ancient kind, witnesses to the dawn of Time.

 The child smiled up at him, "Are you a star?"

"Do you not know who I am?" his brow furrowed, and he felt a small tickle of irritation as the child shook her head, eyes large and peering up at him in wonder.

Ignorant little thing, to understand so little of the gravity and immensity that his presence meant.

He withheld a sigh. Impatience was unbecoming.

A tug at his robe and the urge to leave was quick becoming stronger, he peered down at the girl and she smiled up at him again, "Mister, what's your name?"

"I am Northstar, Polaris A. who presides over the righteous path, and guide to those who have lost sight of it." as he spoke the all too familiar words, his voice carried with it an odd mix of apathy and pride.

By the child's lost look he felt himself deflate a little. The girl was clearly too young to understand his presiding prerogative nor his jurisdiction over the Heavens. Oh well, all with due time he supposed.

To his surprise, the child giggled, "I'm Rain, what are you doing here Mr. Northstar?"

Choosing to ignore the prefix, he instead thought of her question. The smile that crossed his face was closer to a grimace, but any ill will seemed to have escaped the child's notice, "My reasons for descending are beyond your comprehension, child. You need not concern yourself with them."

Rain just stared up at him, confusion clear on her visage, "Will you be here for long?"

"No, child."

"Rain."

"Pardon?" the stellar being raised a brow.

"I'm called Rain." she supplied.

At first he thought her quip bold, impertinent even. Demanding that a constellation such as himself address her by name, but staring down at the child, could see no conceit. It seemed doubtful that she even understood the implications of respect in her request for him to call her by name.

Sure enough, he gleamed her thoughts, revealing nothing but the childish understanding of the world, that just as the white wisps of moisture in the sky were clouds, she was Rain and he was Northstar.

"Are you now?"

A nod.

Northstar glanced around. The Earth of now, held little resemblance to the one of memories, whence he'd last seen it. It wasn't a pleasure trip that had taken him to this quaint speck of inert celestial dust, yet he was in no rush. It had been eons after all, and Time held a very different significance for the celestial lord. Besides, such was but a speck in eternity. Perhaps there was something to be gleamed from--he glanced down at the child staring at him--a different perspective, and entertaining a child was a small price to pay for it.

Settling himself down on a fallen tree, he beckoned to her, "And what of yourself? Twilight is upon us and you've yet to cross the threshold of home."

"I was with some friends, we were playing!" Rain grinned at the memory.

She sat there with the odd stranger, blathering on about her friends, school, the friendly old ratty tabby on her street, and so on.

Northstar was nice, weird, but nice. And his vernacular was strange to her, but she understood the geist of what he was saying, even if he used some pretty big and funny sounding words. That he listened so attentively was a huge plus in her book! He asked her about the town, what she did, and so on. His questions were as strange as he was. Northstar wanted to know the most mundane things.

The star chuckled as the conversation again went back to this odd game that the child seemed so fond of. Hide and seek? Tag?

"Mhmm! Do you wanna try? I'm really good at it!"

And as amusing as it all was, the darkness was soon encroaching. It would soon be Time for his departure.

It was then that a thought came to North, and he made a show of consideration, peeking down at the child from the corner of his eyes in amusement as she watched him with bated breath, at last answering, "Alright, but only one game, for the hour grows late. Pray explain to me once more how it is played."

Rain let out a happy cry and nodded enthusiastically, clamoring that North would count to 10 while she hid, once he found her and tagged her, she would be "it", and it would be the star's turn to hide.

North nodded and closed his eyes, counting down. It was all for show really, he needn't eyes to see the child as she squealed, unprepared, and darted off.

Upon reaching one, he stood, and stepped lightly over the litterfall. Had he been a mere mortal, her hiding spot would have been a good one indeed. But he was a celestial body and as it was, brushed aside the thicket to reveal the small white haired child hiding in the hollow of an old stump.

There was a frantic cry as she scrambled to run, but he was a step ahead, and tapped her on the head.

Rain crossed her arms, sulking up at him and he tutted at her lightly, twirling his finger in a motion that she took to mean it was her turn to turn around and play seeker.

She did so, pouting still, and closed her eyes. But even as she counted, behind her lids she saw a brightening light. Hurriedly, she counted to one and swiveled around, a small anxious pang rushing through her.

But the clearing was oddly dark, void of the cool blue light of the Northstar.

She searched high and low, and confused, looked up to search the sky for the star that had descended.

As she did, she saw a prominent glow fading into the sky. With a cry she called after him, but there was no reciprocating voice, and Rain could only watch as the glow grew weaker still, light diminishing as the distance grew.

Just before it faded back into the nightscape, she heard his voice chuckle, "Catch me if you can, seeker."

With a grin, she hollered back, "I will, I'll find you North!"

The Briar Patch: Ch. 15 - In Winter's Wake (Pt. 2)

The fireplace of the Alpione den is sustained not by any material fuel, but rather by the pure unfiltered aether of the individuals whom shared a bond with the binding cast over the hearth. Such bonded parties are then able to summon the flames at will simply by enabling the binding to siphon their natural reserves of aether. Even shared, the amount of aether consumed in the process would be draining for most creatures that basked under the light of the Star Crossed Lovers. 

Yet those of the Verdance could maintain the bind indefinitely. 

Few outside of those of the Verdance were gifted with their seemingly endless reservoir of aethor, nor their nigh singular ability to replenish the ethereal essence of creation. Truly, it was an unparalleled trait, unique to the diminutive children of the Verdance, for whom the intrinsic perpetuation and abundant store of aether were but the norm. With such boundless aether at their disposal, the drain to maintain a minor bind was insignificant at its worst, and a single Shol could sustain the connection indefinitely.

Over Time, the habit of maintaining a bind becomes less intentional, reaching into the will of the subconscious. This was particularly so in an instilled bindings that had been placed beforehand. Such was the ease with which the Shol could influence the aether, and how innate an ability it was that these aetherical manipulations took barely the conscious thought to activate. 

Yet it was not without influence. Just as the aethor of the lifeform fluctuates, so too does the amount siphoned by the binding in the hearth ebb and flow. 

With how the Keepers of the Verdance veritably breathed the aether, the fire was a good telltale of how the source of its aether fared. While not a perfect indicator, the fire acted as a loose tell of the state of those whom fed it. 

For a hale individual the fire burned as any normal hearth would, whereas the surge of aethor that came with agitation oft brought with it the experience of a sudden flare of flames. Lastly and perhaps least surprising, is the drastic loss of the aether that all creatures suffered when their lifeforce diminished. This is particularly so as the life-giving fluids that filled their vessels served as one of the greatest concentration and reserves of aether.

Lockes being the only such individual amongst them with ties to the hearth, was by default the only one who could've affected it so.

So when the flames flared, crackling ominously on its own initiative as if seething, the two present in the den started. 

That in itself, however, wasn't what they found most unsettling. 

Rather, it was the sudden loss of the fire that Lockes kept ever burning. 

As if smothered. 

"Lockes--"

The breathy utterance was barely audible over the sudden flush as the fire suffocated.

Their only light was extinguished, and with it, their maladjusted sight. 

As the hollow was thrown into darkness, the two found themselves at a sudden loss. Already the cold was setting in. 

Vye was frozen stiff, body prickling despite the cold that was settling in. The eerie silence only emphasized the dread in his vessels as all his plumes stood on end. 

The silent darkness crept with unknown horrors, horrors that threatened to reach out from every direction, to snare and maim. To pull him further into stygian night where he would be lost forever amidst the stifled screams, where the silence proved more terrifying than the voices themselves. For to scream, one had to be alive. Though even that was sparse comfort, for there existed deeper pits still of hellish terror. 

Horrors that could inflict untold suffering. Horrors that would. 

Just as that night had been.

The Bræmbel Shol shivered. No, this wasn't the same. There were no Reapers here--well. Vye flinched as he peered through the aether, and the young Shol stared up at Zeal--and was startled by the sharp eyes staring unflinchingly back at him. 

"You're a Reaper." 

The void that he had failed to recognize. The lies and deceit. 

"Liar!"

A hand reached for him and the Bræmbel flinched harshly, his plumage further fluffing up. To his relief, he felt the presence hesitate, and back away. His fear abated, as did the volume of his plumage.

"Vye, it's okay. I wont hurt you--"

Zeal. 

This was Zeal. 

Zeal wouldn't hurt him.

But he couldn't shake off the terror that had suddenly seized him. 

At least not until he pried his eyes open and forced himself to look up at Zeal. There was a distinct note of discomfort in the Seeker's countenance, and to Vye's alarm, a very raw remorse. 

His fear was nigh tangible, but the heavy guilt more so. 

Zeal hadn't wronged him. If anything the Seeker's life would've been made simple had he chosen instead to have simply captured and kept the Shol captive. Or sold him off. Given that Zeal demanded nectar as payment, Vye's speculations favored the former case to be more likely.

But the important part was that Zeal had done none of those things. Had in fact, quite literally, thrown himself into harm's way to protect his young charge.

Though in truth the unreadable and at best questionable intent of his protector only served to unsettle him in Times like these. 

Vye berated himself for these thoughts, for they only did Zeal wrong where he had done so much right by him.

Almost sheepishly, The vale haled Shol crept close to his guardian. This Time Zeal didn't reach out, instead parting his cloak and shifting so that the Bræmbel Shol may huddle if they so choose.

Vye did, gratefully accepting the invitation and snuggling against Zeal's side, basking in the comforting warmth. No longer shivering, he turned his attention towards the hearth, though it seemed the Seeker had already done the same.

It had been out for quite some Time.

Not once since their arrival had the dark Shol allowed the flames to die, for they knew well that neither those of Solaris's brood nor the Lowlands could ward off and withstand the freezing Alps with the same ease as they themselves could. And the young coty meant far too much to the Alpione host for them to permit even the most minor lapses of negligence. That such an infraction of their diligence would occur--

Not even the glowing remnants of the stones of Lockes slumbering subconscious were present. 

Zeal raised a hand, but no warmth emanated from hearth, further prompting the Seeker to brush the stone.

It was as ice.

Vacant and devoid of any warmth or aether. As if fallen into disuse.

It made the situation all the more surreal. As if perhaps the two were rousing from a hallucinogenic haze, and their Alpione host but an illusion born of an unsettling madness or psychic ensnarement.

Vye huddled closer still to his guardian. 

The unease was nigh tangible in the small hand that nervously wound its way into the cloth covering the Seeker's side. With mild amusement, Zeal noted that the other still kept a tight clutch on the Enigma that their Alpione host had presented to them at daybreak before leaving on their rounds. 

Silently, he noted that the Bræmbel Shol was still struggling to adjust to the dark, instead relying heavily upon his ability to peer through the aether. His own eyes had long since accustomed themselves to the sudden light shift.

"You don't think--" Came the same hushed voice, wavering in its uncertainty. But whatever his charge had intended to say was cut off by a distinct smoldering crackle.

Slowly, and with an ominous red light, did the glowing rocks nestled in the hearth flicker and gradually rise, illuminating the immediate surroundings but no more. 

As if to set the scene.

Far too weak to chase away the shadows, nor fend off the encroaching darkness that flickered in the corners, the dying embers could but cast its sickly red hues across the den. 

Meek yet riveting wafts of heat skittered across the stones, brilliant fiery worms of a hellish ember.

The Seeker shifted and without a word, his beloved greatsword the Nighthawk, flew towards them at his beckoning. The worn, leather-wrapped hilt of the weighty blade resting easily in his palm, the engravings glowing as the metal hummed. 

His young charge marveled briefly, for the enchantments of the sword were one that heeded Seeker's call alone, and it was an impressive sight as always to see such elegance even in the art of war. Even if it was a instrument of bloodshed. The Bræmbel Shol was quick to avert their gaze with thinly veiled unease, and behind which gleamed visions far too vivid and real for his liking. The obsidian blade glinted menacingly. Basked in the red hues strewn across the hollow, it seemed almost dripping with precious life essence.

The first Time he had ever glimpsed such an instrument had been moments before its indifference stained the ground with a terrifying shimmer, the radiant light of the rising moon entwining the rivulets of gold with silver accents. 

Vye shuddered and decided his attention was best allocated elsewhere. As the light cast from the hearth grew in intensity, the two settled back, though ever vigilant.

The fire burned low still. But while a weak fire may well be a sign that something was amiss with the Alpione Shol, it wasn't the only plausible cause. Unlikely though it may seem, it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that the Bluepine had simply dozed off. Or perhaps their Alpione host had taken a larger loop in their usual rounds while circling Whitedew, and the bond had just grown weak by the sheer distance the severed Shol had put between them and the Alpione Ring, thus straining and enfeebling the aetherical transfer. Or maybe something else was interfering or otherwise placing a strain upon their aetherical reserves.

The abruptness by which the fire had smothered couldn't be dismissed, however.

Zeal settled back against the smoothed cambium that the den wall comprises.

Nothing for it but to wait. 

But his young charge was far less impassive, and could but look to his aloof guardian for reassurance. Yet despite the gentle hand combing his plumes, Vye whirled this way and that, eyes flickering as he peered through the aethor.

After a moment more of this antsy jittering, the Bræmbel Shol settled back against Zeal's side. 

Another moment more and he spoke, "Lockes is on their way here. So's the Crier."

That got his attention. 

From what he'd gathered, the Northern Blue communed nigh constantly with the sovereign beast and had at length, mentioned something about the creature acting as a vessel or medium of sorts. Borrowed eyes, through which they temporarily regained, albeit muted, the sight lost with severance from the Verdance.

It wasn't a perfect system. Regardless of how high the synchronicity between the Crier and Lockes may be, the dark Shol would suffer a deterioration in clarity the farther they were from the Crier, and a complete loss of vision should they be separated entirely.

That they would call the Crier to meet them meant that whatever it may be, Lockes would gather all of what remained of the limited sight they had now.

Zeal would've been content to await the Bluepine's arrival, but instead the Seeker swept his charge up into his arms, pressing Vye against his chest and holding him there.

The Bræmbel Shol squirmed in his hold, head popping up to peek up at him, eyes practically swimming in curiosity.

What brought on this bout of affection? Zeal was not given to such fond displays. Not that Vye had any objections, and on that the young Shol decided it would be best to take it for what it is than to question this odd behavior. Whatever it was, Vye was grateful for it. For any distraction whilst they awaited their wayward host. 

That and his protector himself was disinclined to provide an explanation.

It was comforting to hear the life thrumming in a slow steady beat beneath his head while enveloping him in blissful warmth. Vye fought the urge to drift off, but the fatigue of the long months and the strength that had yet to recover proved to be too much. With the soothing warmth and Heart beat so reminiscent of the collective beat of his Circle as they huddled together in the den in the dreary Wintry chill. Overwhelmed the exhausted lowland Shol's eyes slipped shut and soon enough his consciousness had drifted off into that of the land of dreams.

Zeal hugged the diminutive form in his lap, squeezing the small Shol tight despite the other having left for a place far beyond even his reach. Not because he desired any such affection, but because Vye needed it. 

Even in his sleep the young Shol was troubled, mumbling incoherently at Times emitting those odd near shrill peeps of distress. An incessant noise that scraped at his auditory tracts. Still it was better than the Times when Vye would call out for his brethren--would jerk upright in alarm--only to find himself alone.

Those Times were the most difficult to deal with. 

When the memory was fresh, and the loss far too vivid. Reliving the same nightmare over and over again.

The seeker held Vye down as he struggled and lashed out at imaginary enemies in his sleep, at first doing so with the intention of keeping the valley Shol from harming himself. Instead he inadvertently found that the touch served to calm these fits, soothing that feverish mumbling and relaxing the tensely withdrawn body.

And so he'd taken to hugging Vye tight during his troubled sleep, that he may protect him even when the young Shol had gone where he could not follow. The warmth and contact seemed to keep the worst of these night terrors at bay, and pacify him the Times they did not.

Because just before the hearth was smothered, however briefly, there had been a very real and deep sewn fear etched into those normally so very cheerful eyes. An expression that held the true depths of how strongly the horror that haunted him, had him in their tangled grasp, ever lingering in the shadows.

Perhaps it was some modicum of guilt that urged him onward, to do whatever it may take to ease the weight Vye seemed far too young, too frail, to bear on his own.

"Then just give up if it's so wretched to go on!"

And the suffering he'd unwittingly inflicted.

"Go off yourself if you're so miserable for all the good that will do, just like the rest of your pathetic kind!"

The Seeker's jaw clenched, "I never did say it did I."

Unsurprisingly there was no response, other than the gentle rise and fall as the last Shol of the Bræmbel Ring roamed lands far, far away, over the stars.

"You'll not hear me where you are now, but I'd say it just the same." and he held the small Shol against him just a bit tighter, "I'm sorry."

Zeal spared another glance down to ensure his young charge was comfortably asleep before planting the Nighthawk firmly beside him. With that the Seeker set his sights upon the sole entrance to the Alpione den, hence he would remain, ever vigilant until at last they heard the shuffle of the Bluepine, and the telltale rumbling that indicated the Crier to not be far behind.

And it was how the Bluepine would find them. 

The severed Shol slid around the corner of the chute, landing harshly on moss padding. Their eyes searched the den, zeroing in on Vye. 

Safe. In the arms of a Reaper.

The flames roiled in tumultuous waves, throwing the den into hues of vivid red.

The dark met the Reaper's gaze with no small amount of unease. A questioning look that went unanswered, the Bluepine noting his casual posture as he sat back against the living wood, even while a hand was subtly curled around the hilt of his stygian blade. It was an odd sight still to see a small Shol nestled in the arms of a Reaper. 

The Seeker hadn't appeared the least bit surprised by their early return. Perhaps it was a not so unexpected. 

And they fought down the urge to asphyxiate them then and there.

Lockes was no stranger to a Reaper's devious cunning, nor their diabolical schemes.

"We've put this off long enough." The Northern blue drew a shaky breath. "We need to talk."

With his usual languor, the Reaper shrugged, leaning back against the living wood of the hollow, "So I've heard."

The Briar Patch: Ch. 15 - In Winter's Wake (Pt. 1)

The blizzard had been unrelenting last night and the ground cover had gained a good couple feet of snow.

Lockes slowly made their way across the white expanse, steps soft and wary. For the hidden pockets and tree wells caught many a passerby, even the sure-footed.

It was the fresh fallen snow that was most treacherous, for it's innocent pristine appearance was most convincing in its deception. Soft as all virgin snow was, and deceivingly sturdy besides.

How strongly it held, until one found firm footing, abruptly giving way to a hollow that spanned anywhere from a shallow pocket of couple inches, to yards across in a yawning cavernous abyss.

Yet weak though it may seem at the most inconvenient Times, so too was it resilient just the same. There was no hurrying through snow for it but hindered movement. The faster one moved, the more it sapped them of their strength. Everything came slowly, indifferent, cold, and measured.

Many underestimated the white ground cover at their own expense, and how dearly they paid for their ignorance. There was no help to be had out here in the wilderness. No societal convenience or ready succor to coddle their hurts.

A mere sprained ankle was enough to cost a life, for it delayed travel and to be accosted by the unpredictable storms of the high altitudes was a death sentence for the unprepared. Supplies would run low, and they would either eat, or be eaten.

Rarely was it the former.

Worse still were the wells. Many a victim by careless slip ended up in a tree well, where they would stay over Winter. For the steep snow gave no leverage, and could not be scaled, nor could it be made to budge.

Come Spring, Lockes oft found the branches of the towering pines sheltering an unwilling companion. So immaculately preserved by the frost, one would think them simply asleep. But such was a slumber they were never to wake from.

It was a frightening notion to many of the living. The eternal. Death was so final, and oft came abrupt and without reason.

But the dead were dead.

Never again to stir.

Unlike the shades of the Bluepine's memory, whom though passed, wouldn't stay there.

Lockes shuddered. Though they had the entirety of the Alps to roam and the valley to wander, ever were they confined to the prison of their mind.

The sleek sheen of ice pathed forth, but Lockes knew better and gave the river a wide berth. 

Here the river veered far into the bank, a pocket that was alarmingly deep. But the difference in the frozen eddies, and that over solid ground were scarce visible. The slow moving froth of the entangled swirls mimicked the snow perfectly, and in the white expanse that but stretched on in every direction, it was easy to become muddled.

For those who were unfamiliar with these parts, and even those who were, it could prove a lethal mistake.

A dangerous trek, and Lockes would not be so foolish as to claim safety in experience, for what did the past measure up to against Nature? Such boasts but encouraged the naive illusion that one understood, and conquered, when in reality there was no surpassing the limitations imposed by the materialization of the Prismatic Arc.

Nay. Lockes lived because they were vigilant, cautious, and respectful.

The Bluepine meandered down the hill, weaving between the brush and hesitating at the treeline. 

The day before they had trekked up to the vantage point at Ebonspire Ridge. So named for the pitch black bluffs, nigh impossible to scale, steep as they were and perpetually coated with a sheen coat of slippery ice. Unless save, one knew the terrain almost as well as one's own palm.

There was a small underpass tucked away in the scraggly wind-beaten brush. If one were to follow it, would find the sinuous path ascending and coming out on a small flat amidst the obsidian spines, towering high above Whitegrove.

While beautiful, as most Shols did, Lockes preferred a different scene day to day, and thus on a whimsy, followed the bend left.

Still, Lockes mused, In spite of the treacherous terrain, every morning they would without fail, rise with First Light to follow Sol as they made their great journey across the sea above.

Not for the sake of necessity, nay, after all the Solar warden's radiance, meek though it was in the Alps, was sufficient if that was all the dark Shol desired.

It was the crisp air, the sting of the icy wind as it howled, rustling through the evergreens above.

In this they felt a twinge of sympathy for the Reaper, grudging though the thought may be to take pity upon one of his kind.

Nonetheless, to be cooped up with naught to occupy him but the smarts of his wounds--it seemed such a vulnerable and pitiable situation.

Well. That wasn't entirely true.

Zeal had nothing to be engrossed in, save the fruit of the efforts of the Coty that he accompanied. Vye had certainly been busy, absorbed in trying to find the Reaper a distraction. Unfortunately, it was to no avail.

Though Zeal seemed to believe otherwise, Vye clung to his side. Every morning they extended an invitation, should the Coty desire to venture through the Alps, forage, and learn their trade. And every Time yet, the young Shol refused despite the eager gleam and disappointment that said otherwise.

Vye opted out not for a lack of interest, but concern for their comrade. Not that the Bræmbel Shol could alleviate the boredom nor expedite the Seeker's recovery, but it's the thought that counts.

In a difficult Time, they would be there for the Reaper. 

As if the man was one of their Circle. One of their own. A kindred fellow that for the young Coty, he may very well be.

What an odd twist of Fate.

The sole surviving member of the Bræmbel Ring, perhaps the only other Shol in existence, and the most crucial piece in this morbid game that they played called Life.

For them to end up with one of the very creatures directly responsible for their demise and the decimation of all their Fairy Rings. For their survival to now rely upon them so heavily.

What an odd twist of Fate.

Lockes wasn't sure whether to laugh or scoff at the irony.

The severed Shol followed the frozen currents and eddy, whisking along the frozen stream beside them. They stooped scrape at the banks seemingly at random. Yet these intermittent forages couldn't have been by pure fancy, for the Bluepine would straighten up with yet another find to tuck away into the folds of their fiddles. 

By their will, did each tendril unfurl, the appendage grasping the Bluepine's find and curling back up to rest amongst the rest of the fronds. 

Lockes had built up a steady rhythm. A couple paces, a scuffle of snow, a small delight to stow away. And thus did they repeat.

Until they felt their needles bristle. Lockes froze, a hand hovering just above a patch of clovers laying dormant beneath the fresh snow. Just inches away, the innocent patch of greens lay beneath a smooth cover of snow, as if untouched.

But Lockes knew better.

A shudder crept through them and immediately a wary set of eyes scanned at the surrounding brush.

They themselves weren't out in the open, and with so much ground cover there was plenty to conceal oneself in. The same could be said for any would be hunters on the prowl, but most any creature knew better than to test a Shol's patience and sought quarry elsewhere.

But that was neither here nor there.

Whatever this was, it wasn't 'most any creature'.

Severed though they were they yet breathed the aether, and it was after all the first lesson a Shol learned that would bear them throughout the span of their long lives, that one did not see with their eyes alone.

Few knew that coties, though born with the anatomy, were born blind.

Helpless and sightless were the little seedlings, conceived within the darkness and warmth of the Fairy Ring. Yet it wasn't until they touched the Prismatic Arc that they were able to siphon the strength to scrabble out from their Earthen womb, pushing forth and bringing with them a tender splotch of color, just as their predecessor had done before them.

Those who could not see with more than just their eyes, remained dormant until they could do so.

So long ago had it been that the Bluepine reached out for the aether, and though severed from the Verdance, they would do so again with the help of their dear Crier. 

It was through borrowed eyes that they could still see the Prismatic Arc, and in the scant of what remained, Lockes felt the gentle breath over the land, carrying on in the curling zephyrs. 

Everything which existed 'twixt the light of the Stars, had a presence.

Where the neighboring clump of clovers lay, just beyond their hand, there was naught.

And that was perhaps what was most perplexing of all.

The clovers were physically still there and yet--they had vanished. Whatever Life they once bore, though they were green still, their aether had gone. It was alive in name only.

Nothing of nature could've done that, at least in the Alps.

And it also wasn't here. 

Not anymore.

A sense of dread slowly filled them, and slowly Lockes drew back, retracing their steps through the brush and making haste towards the den. They couldn't shake off the steadily growing sense of unease, and kept casting apprehensive glances back, straining to feel what little they could of the terrain miles ahead, through the Verdance they had been so severed from.

Lockes grit their teeth, hoping that this was simply paranoia. 

Why, after all this Time, would they come back? Had The two of them been tracked? Surely Zeal couldn't have been so careless as to leave a trail.

Driven by fear, the Bluepine couldn't shake off the distrust they had suppressed for so long in favor of companionship.

Unthinkable though it was what with how gently Zeal treated Vye--and the extent he was willing to undergo for his charge--was this perhaps staged?

It was what the dark Shol had believed upon their first meeting. That this was nothing more than a ruse to lure any of their surviving brethren out. A clever ploy, and tragically not the first.

But even that was far in the dark Shol's mind now.

Deep into whitedew where not even the Sherpas dared roam, unhospitable as the Highlands were.

In the Bluepine's long years, there was only one to have dared to ascended this far up the Alps, deep into Whitedew territory.

And only one who knew of Lockes's existence.

Poem: Doll's Dance

Naught will avail this Time worn tune,
Sung by a doll who asks a boon.

Who danced to the pull of strings so weary,
As if ever so very merry.

Strings that were strung, by choice of course.
Taken with the vise of loneliness and remorse.

In a world colored by fear, and in each hand,
Carried dreams once vivid, now but dust and sand.

Pitiful, perhaps, but what's it to you?
For it is thanks to you, that all this is due!

"Not I!", they may proclaim, aye, so very true.
And the doll nods along, so filled with rue.

For they are but a doll to dance and sing.
It is never another's fault, so blind they enjoy being!

And so the doll turned heaven ward,
And over the stars, she said, her last word.

Goodbye, dear friends who never were,
And a love that was callous, never soft for her.

The Briar Patch: Ch. 14 - Into the Cellar

It also doubled as he would find, a common ground to truly melt the icy vindication that Lockes on their own, could not have so easily drowned out, and the two could talk for hours on end, much to Vye's dismay, on the different cups, their imbued depth, imparting flavor, and unique qualities.

Vye thought it all tasted downright terrible. End of story.

Snippets and Stories: (WtI) Clover

Silas stared at the turtleneck his flatmate was sporting.

"Well? What do you think? It's going to be out on shelves come fall." Neiro grinned, giving a twirl to show off the back as well.

Snippets and Stories: (BP) Merriment

Shols were, Zeal noted, astonishingly light on their feet and lithe besides.

They were holed up for the night, and his charge had been stricken by a bought of homesickness. But one of many, as of late.

The little Shol's yearning, though kept to himself, was all but evident in his furtive glances and vague stares, the slight mentions, or how all his thoughts seemed to drift towards past memories of his beloved Bræmbel Ring. 

A Circle that though unmentioned, whose presence he was very clearly aware and felt bereft of.

It was then that Lockes had drawn the younger Shol in with the beginnings of a song. When little Vye picked up the tune, the severed Shol threw in a twist of light footwork and a graceful whirl.

Fiddleheads swirling around them, the Bluepine reached out and grasped Vye's hand, pulling them to fall into step.

Vye was far too naive, too young to see it for what it was. The lengths that Lockes and Zeal went to for his benefit. A thankless job, certainly, to be a caretaker.

Yet Vye was not so foolish in his youth as to squander it.

A mere distraction it may have been to the Bræmbel Shol, a coincidental break and nothing more, but one Vye is grateful for nonetheless.

So they danced late into the night, twirling and singing in the Heart's Song.

Seeing his ward's delight and fully diverted attention, Zeal decided that they were well and would continue to be so without him skulking about like a wary hawk. 

With a relieved groan, Zeal took leave and allowed the tension of the day to ease from a body fraught with tolls far more draining than simple physical exhaustion.

There would be plenty of that to go around in the coming months, and a great pleasure should they not.