Travels of Wanderer

[Khaelieth]

Kneeling in front of the grave, the figure let the shovel fall. The seeds he had planted in the soil, though not visible even in the light of the dancing Wisps and lantern, would soon break through the soil. The Bloodfire, the rare flower that would only grow in blood-rich soil, would be first to grow and first to blossom. Sighing, the figure got to his feet, wiping at the blood running in a gentle stream from his nose. His eye twitched as a shadow passed over his eyes. The gentle blue-green light of the wisps reflected on the traveller's sun-tanned, but drawn face, making the blood seem black in the ghostly light.



He didn't feel sad, he thought, dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief. Maybe a degree of melancholy. He was less affected by his baser emotions, as if there was a veil between him and them. It was freeing, in a way, though he imagined should feel guilty about that, especially granted the magnitude of emotion he should feel at this moment. While the world was greyer, it was also clearer. A sense of clarity filled him. Duty. That's what he felt. And a calling. It was sometimes difficult these days, gathering his thoughts.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, concentrating. His thoughts felt scattered somehow, though he managed to keep them together. It was getting better, he thought. It was an apt spot he had chosen. Sacrifice. He could almost hear the sound of water through the forest. He had always liked this place and remembered that he had often come here for meditation.

Had it been worth it? The cost had been steep, in the end. He was, however, sane and alive. That alone was uplifting. And his talents were undiminished, and in some aspects greater. However, he did feel old. Much of what had been second nature now felt like clutching at shadows. Could he have done something different? Probably. But would that have had other outcomes? He had never trusted the tarot-witches of the gypsies, but maybe... No. Therein madness certainly lies, and there was something about sleeping dogs.

Saying a brief blessing, more out of sense of custom and respect, the man kissed his fingers and placed them on the ground. The wanderer turned, the wind catching his dark cloak, whipping it behind him as he disappeared into the darkness.