An Error Left to Rot

[Terry 1859]

An Error Left to Rot

A traveling Greene, 97 S.A.

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“How could this happen…?”

 

Those were the words of one Greene Caerme’onn-Norväyn, so many miles from home, ears ringing, eyes full of tears, body beginning to ache and bleed.

 

“It was never supposed to go like that…”

 

It would be thoughts like this that would plague the young adult as he ran, one hand clenched around that of a blood-stained sword. For many miles, past beaches, cities, forests and open plains... past the scrapes, cuts and bruises of nature and wildlife, would his mind race. Thoughts of guilt, regret, anger and utter sadness, thoughts the boy had once thought to have conquered if but for a time, haunted him completely once more. 

 

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“How can I ever go home…?”

 

After many an hour running, had the boy finally managed to come to a stop. Though, while the adrenaline left, memories and thoughts flooded in. That of his sister, the fear in her eyes as the blade made contact. The anger and what the boy perceived as regret and sorrow radiating from his mother. The rage and forcefulness of his father, who he’d many a time seen use against his enemies, now used against him. The effort and persistence of his aunt to see wrongs righted, and the boy saved from a dark path… 

 

It all became too much for him as he slouched down atop a nearby hill neighboring a stream, tears pouring from his face once more. This would occur for a time, his head hung low as he watched the world move on, down below.

 

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In his seat upon the hill, Greene would peer to his sword, finally giving it notice as his mind began to slowly calm. The first thing he’d realize, was the blood that remained towards the tip. With renewed urgency, he would attempt to clean the blade of it in the nearby water, though to no avail at first. This would cause him to lose focus once more, his mind reflecting back to Nevaehlen as his effort increased exponentially. 

 

The fearful eyes of his sister, the reddened anger from his mother, the booming authority of his father, and the pierced determination of his aunt. The memory of that scene replayed on and on.

 

“Mum, Pops… Wulff, Auntie Lilly… Forgive me... I’m so sorry…”

 

This memory would continue, until Greene found himself expended, the task of cleaning having sapped him of all his remaining strength. It was here that he’d collapse and drift into sound sleep near the water, the blade’s hums and minor vibrations the only company against the wilds of nature.

 

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The next morning, both Greene and the blade were gone, the only evidence of his movements being footprints in the mud, pointed seemingly in the direction of the Western hemisphere of Almaris.

 

On a nearby tree, a simple sentence is carved.

 

“The Wilds 

know ne 

honor. -G”

 

 

[Criala 728]

Unaware of all on goings, Rosalia wondered where her nephew had been. It was unusual to not see him for so long. Her mind wandered to something she overheard him say to Wulff, last she saw him.

 

"I'm not parting with it."

 

She hadn't caught all of it, but that one part was what stuck out to her. What 'it' was, she didn't know. What she did know was that it left a suspicious curiosity and worry. She'd not been able to ask, since he and Wulff went off rather quickly.

 

"Hopefully you're okay, Greene."

 

She brought the carving knife down, the features of the young 'ame starting to take shape in an oak log.

"I hope this feeling is wrong."

 

[Fireheart 2768]

Kneeling in her quiet pocket she often went to for comfort the Caerme'onn would be locked up. Frozen with a complex look of frustration, anger, and sorrow plastered across her face. Memories of the night flashed across her mind. Thoughts of the night, how it escalated so quickly, how she might have been able to do something different to stop what had happened. Her nails began to sink into the skin of her legs as the worry and regret began to settle in.

 

"I care deeply about you malii’malonn...come back to us, please, before forgiveness is not an option."

 

Drawing a hand to her side she would pull a couple of green items out. A green piece of cloth from Greene's bedroom, a green leaf from the tree outside his home, a green piece of bark covered in moss that grew beside his room in the doorway. All, one by one, were gently placed on the ground and lit aflame to be burned. The brows of the 'ame would knit together with a silent prayer being whispered under her breath. A small line of smoke flowing steadily from the offerings and racing to the sky to float out of the Vale into the wilderness. 

[SoulReapingWolf 2258]

It had been a hectic few days in Nevaehlen, the village was relatively quiet most of the time, but every so often a new problem would arise, leading the Matriarch and the rest of the Concord to deal with it before it became a larger source of stress. Thordir had gone out that morning on one of his usual hunts, however as the hunt progressed he'd come to realize he had ignored all the tracks for some of his usual prey, focusing instead on any tracks left behind by the young Mali'ame warrior. He'd come to a halt as he noticed a few words carved into a tree, he'd dismount his Stag, allowing it to graze while he investigated the area. The Hunter would kneel by the tracks on the mud as his gaze was locked on the Western Horizon. 

"Sapling... I know this is a journey you must make by yourself but your family misses you. The village misses you. Your haelun and maln might try to appear strong, but their heart aches with every night that comes and you are not there for them to tuck you in bed..."
 

The Wild Chief would signal for a few Gladeguards to come out from the Shadows. He'd stand by the tree Greene had carved the Halerir'ame's number one lesson, carving the sigil of Cernunnos under it as he gave instructions to the Gladeguards.
 

"Find him, but don't let him see you. He will return when he is ready, but you must make sure he's ne harmed while he's out there. Keep me informed, if he tries anything foolish, send a hawk to the Overlook, I will join you then."

 

The Aureon would then get back on his armored Stag, brushing his hand against its mane before ordering it to take him back home.