Taraborn

The deepest bowels of the night were still quiet in early May. No crickets sang under the starry, blue-black mantle yet. They would not awaken until later in the summer. A bullfrog, perhaps, might croak his serenade from a distant pond. But under the shaft of cool, pale moonlight that fell through the cottage window, everything was hushed. 

The woman leaving Towerglan might have been an alarming sight to behold from a distance, leading a horse and cart from the town, the front of her skirt covered in blood with the bottom few inches torn off. Her expression was hollow, as if she didn’t fully take in her surroundings. One might have thought she’d been attacked by the look of her, but upon closer inspection he might see that none of the blood was hers, for she bore no wounds, and though the bottom of her dress had been ripped away, it had been done so carefully, a clean tear.

Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all.

Seems I've spent too often, in recent months, shedding tears and willingly letting my mind shatter, for what was never anything else other than a dead end. Oh, how could I be so foolish. I was better than this. I am better than this. So why am I crying right now? Where is there still tears lining my bruised cheeks.

I don't think I've ever felt like this. Not truly. Not even with Tailia. My own fucking wife could not evoke such disdain, such hate. Yet this woman did. This fucking woman. Who the fuck is she? Was anything ever real? I doubt it. She made her decision. After everything we shared, after everything that I did, and gave up, for her...

Nothing quite like the kick of whiskey, eh? Nothing quite comes as close anymore, ‘less I have a blade in my hands. Perhaps the kick of life, but, recently I've found myself less 'kicked' and more stampeded upon by horde of, let's say less than pleased, oliphaunts. But, I digress, I can't say things haven't been interesting lately.

Slumped over his horse, Taraborn rides through the night into early morning. Riding through Breeland, he searches for Narys at her favourite campsites, hoping to find her there. No luck. Only one had signs of a recent fire but it might not have been hers. So, he continues, heading to the next spot. Not far from that old fire, from his bent over position in the saddle, he manages to see something glinting on the ground, a chance beam of sunlight hitting it.