Fri Jul 10, 2015 8:25 pm by Merisa
A high pitched scream sounded through the woods calm before it thudded silent a few seconds later. Several seconds of pierce went by before again it was broken by a high pitches wail, a sound that screamed and tormented the boughs and leaves of the woods. It was to high pitched to be human surely, but because of dense foliage it seemed to echo and change giving it eery life in the gloom of the early morning fog. What banshee was out prowling in the wee hours? What was causing this lilting shrill noise to resonate with such power?
One need only delve deeper in the the mossy glade and ethereal forests to the north of the castle to find the source. In a flat of shore line, maybe inches above the water line sat a crested expanse of flat moss covered rocks. To either side of the dry land the waters trickled passed with ease, but for some unseen reason the waters in the middle were diverted and flowed around a long strip of an island. Over this stream the fog seemed to have faded already for it was clear and easy to see great distanced up and down stream from there. But the banks were still lightly blanketed in the low hanging clouds of fog.
There in the middle of the stream some hundred yards from a lone figure sat a stand much like an artists easel, only far larger and taller. On it gently rested a thick woven rug. The rug itself was not marked, painted or adorned by anything other than two close shafts. At the visible ends of the shafts a trio of feathers closely cropped per each. They were not sticks, but arrows. Finely made and fletched in pristine white. With out warning a third wail broke the scene and soon after a third arrow stuck in tight grouping form the mat.
The figure at the other end of the island of rock now moved. Slowly walked towards the mat. A quiver strapped to his back over a well worn sir coat. In his left hand a bow that seemed made of ivory was held, its long curved lengths so ornately carved and etched it seemed nearly impossible. But then again such works of craftsmanship were commonly seen around the campus, specially in the hands of the teaching staff. It seemed each person that entered the gates and took this castle as their home had a unique story to tell and carried inhuman artifacts, knowledge’s or blood. And Tristan was in fact no different.
Today in the seemingly clear light he moved forward, his visage not hidden by his seeming as usual because he was alone in the wilds. Long elvish ears, chiseled face, and strong, sleek cheek bones easily seen by any that might look his way. And when he finally reached the target he had shot he would slowly with draw the first arrow he reached and look it over carefully before returning it to the crafted quiver on his back and moving to the second arrow, then the third. After retrieving all he smiled and looked out around him softly. As if he knew another was near, but intentionally not looking at them directly yet.
