07-22-2017, 12:50 PM
Between apologizing to women constantly and chasing tail in the other bits of spare time he has, he’s had hardly any time to himself. No time to fuddle with thoughts of leaving the River, letting it go for good. He’s been reluctant to accept that it is not a perfectly suitable home, trying to lure woman back, trying to find secluded little hidey-holes for himself – the camel’s spine finally gave way to a piece of feather weight wheat when a band of yearlings came crashing through while he and a ‘friend’ were starting to get cozy in one of his favorite spots. Fuck this. After the girl made some excuse and trotted off, he’s left with only that thought. Fuck. This. Time for a new place to live, eh? A common land is no place to take up camp and although beautiful, it becomes crowded and there is often nowhere untouched. The mossy banks of the rushing water show signs of Chem and his months of lurking. Cairns line his pathways, scars left on tree trunks and certain plants cultivated, others trampled. He’s tried to make it a home, sort of, but thus failed and must leave his comforts and little sigils, stone piles, & markings behind. Quite unceremoniously he makes his way westward to the mountains. A cold breeze rushes off the peaks, the water makes the air chillier, and the freshness of the mountain-top melt water can be smelled on the swaying winds. He’s in Hyaline within a few hours, the lake slowing coming into view. He followed a swampy path, likely made by tapirs, or deer or some such travelling vegetarian. It carved a way through the sentinel mountains and into its emerald palace. The evening light catches against blooms of all kinds, flourishing greenery and fat healthy flower-buds hanging among the lushness. A wisteria, bright and dancing in the soft flow of wind, catches his eye. Long fluttery ferns along with smooth river stones line a gravelly pathway up to the giant, ancient vine tree. It swallowed a large stone, pointed and about 20 feet high from its base. The trunks of the vine have melded and become a twirling case of wood and leaf wrapping the old stone. No one will ever know what the stone means, or meant, or if it might be an old carving – only the wisteria knows. He is staring up at the tangle of root, wood and stone while the sun sets at his back. Birds call out, the sea crashes in the distance, but so far he stands alone as his eyes thoughtfully run over the purple-bloomed knot of old vine. c h e m d o g in absentia luci, tenebrae vincunt |
he just decided to go this direction and bam
