What Comes in the Night (Closed)

[Aello]

Timestamp: Summer 25, 513 AV There was a cleft in the corner of the ridge; a jagged edge, whose carved tips rose into snowy peaks, before falling away into an earthen mass. Fine grains; closely packed into circled mass; innards crawling with smoldering coals. The edges ashen; flecks of light sprinkled throughout, the only hint that life still lingered. That all within the iris had not been lent to the day's simple trance. The methodical nature by which one foot moved in front of the other over and over, propelling the lithe huntress forward, and away from the city. Whose re-entrance had been one of the first of her many recent mistakes. The atmosphere, as always, being relatively simple and carefree, almost inviting. The air smelling of the salt of the sea; carried to even the farthest noses by way of the gentle breeze. Grass crisp, cut. Buildings rolling masses of rock; others crumbling beneath hidden weight. Rubble; remnants from distant storms. Gravel by which one tread; grinding the tender pieces into the ground as they made their way into city's heart, to carry out mundane tasks. A daily routine. But entrance for the huntress, was anything but routine. Clipped; grating, in that it took far too long to sell her wares. Far too long to find the frame again. Ashes dancing between worn beams. Blackened by where fire once hungrily licked. Hollowed portions bathed in light; others cast in shadow. Eyes always trailing over what once was- now only a corpse. Soot. It was a home that was no longer a home. And so, Aello had left as swiftly as her feet could carry her. Ignoring the wails of frightened people. Skirts swirling around ankles; reddening flesh and puffy eyes, heavy, laden with tears. Arms empty; although cloth clung to breasts; and handerkerchiefs to noses as moisture clung. Both from the heat and from the disposal of salted water- sweat. Tears. It was as though Aello could smell their torment- their inner sorrows, as voices cried together. Demanding justice. That someone find what had happened to all of the local children. Never heard from, never seen. Tiny hands reaching for the larger, that simply were not there. As the huntress tread, she shook her head lightly. Tousling her chestnut colored mane; the frayed edges tickling the back of her neck as she made her way along. Rubbing the few coins she had made between her fingers. Listening to their soft clamor as her fist tightened around her father's old bow. A sense of levity within the depths of her heart not that she was within her forest. Bathed in its familiarity; away from the pain of fading memory.