Ashaia

Through the mud and the twigs, Dagramir would crawl. A meandering black-clad frame worked its way quietly through the underbrush, clay and muck spattering across his leather gambeson as he slithered through the moss – arcs of rainfall lighting up the blackened world around him in a beautiful chorus.

She sat there silently, her arms bent at the elbows as her fingers templed in front of her lips. It was perhaps unheard of to see the Raven donning anything but black leathers or velvets, yet her willowy frame was draped in a breezy, white linen shirt, unbuttoned almost entirely to reveal a slither of her shapeless chest and the slight details of the tattoo underlining her sternum.

*Trigger warnings for very minor details of suicide and miscarriage.*

The turning of the leaves was perhaps the most definitive proof that a sense of change now lingered in the air. The regal colours of orange and magenta were beginning to pattern the nearest oak trees like jewels inlaid within a crown.

A rather apt simile when the Raven, herself, was perched so close by.

‘Women play a fickle game, son. Always be wise to their ways.’

Pebble. Moss. Pebble. Pebble. All-heal. Early. Moss. Hoy. Daisy. Hello? Black pebble. Are you looking for something. Huh?

Stalks of grass and flowers alike would have bristled pleasantly to the guiding hand of the early morning breeze. The wind carving its way over the collection of dirt and stone that surrounded Nenuial; where picturesque landscapes had been butchered by the unstoppable ingenuity of man. The river which flowed below an undeterminable King’s feet seemed rather gentle this morn, to Dagramir’s keen eye. The Gondorian stood calm upon the edge of the withering bridge, feet spread evenly to the tune of his shoulders.

*The following piece contains a brief description of self-harm. If this subject matter is something that would trigger you or make you feel uncomfortable, I advise you to proceed no further.*

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Blink.

Wooden beams stretched across a floral white expanse of painted framework that lay above Dagramir’s prone body. The contours of the roof hazed its way into his immediate attention as he did his best to return to his mind some form of conscious ability.

Blink.

"Who died?"

An adequate enough question when in the presence of such an unusual occurrence; for the Raven, quite suspiciously so, was smiling to herself. Stood tall upon a plinth, her resemblance to a rather ornate-looking statue was uncanny. A statue that depicted the likes of a faceless deity of fertility or something equally as feminine.