Banners of gold shined dully upon the Skipping Stones. Their arrival at the Sunset Fort was bittersweet. Once, cherry faces fell into light expressions, and many had yearned for rest. The gates opened gradually, and cautious soldiers lowered their hostility at the sight of the company. The Skipping Stones' contract had long been acknowledged under Helinor, though their prestige hadn't reached anything beyond that of minor skirmishes.
A soldier among the many approached the entering band, his hair a short blonde and his face cleanly shaved.
"Ah, The Skipping Stones. We've been awaiting your arrival with many delay. Lord Sol was hesitant to deem you deserted or dead. But his intuition deemed you credible." With stern words, he adjusted his sights on Dove, examining his white hair briefly. "You must be the one Helinor spoken word of, Dove had it been? I am Markese Of Neverend."
Dove nodded gently. He recalled his conversation with the Sunset Knight being brief. Though that was many months ago. To Dove, that felt like centuries.
"Helinor's words yet to be proven incorrect," Markese folded his arms. "The muted general, eh? Quite a feat within itself. ."
Crow removed his dark helm, placing it on his side.
"The White Bird is far more capable than any of you lot' I'd assure ye." Crow intruded.
"We'll see if the stories hold true." Markese continued, unamused by cocksure boasts. "Conditions here slowly grow dire. Despite Lord Sol's leadership, soldiers desert daily, and as resources grow shorter. Thoughts of victory wan within our men. Sol opened the treasury to your employment as a token of his trust, and he expects loyalty to his obligations."
"I believe that coin will suffice, eh?" Crow gestured to Dove.
Dove brooded, dismissing the words, as his eyes wandered the fortress. Populated yet lifeless. With uncontended soldiers stationing the walls, poorly conditioned and too weak to wield their armaments. It was all too unnerving to him.
"The Skipping Stones would rather perish than dishonor a contract," Robyn spoke, dismounting, "With our blades, we'll turn the tide."
"Aye'." Hog concurred, adjusting the holster across his chest.
Dove smiled, content with their reassurance. He reassured Markese of his loyalty, offering his gesture and gratitude.
Upon agreement, the tension broke in two with a firm handshake from both parties.
"Very well, I'll assist you in getting settled," Markese spoke, leading the group down a bricked trail into the courtyard.
Within the confines of the walls were sparsely dotted tents for the company, rations, and fresh water. Though all temporary, it was enough to suffice and rekindle morale.
"I insist you all rest. The light cannot show the path within the shadows," Markese concluded, leaving toward the chambers.
[. . .]
Night encroached swiftly, turning the bright blue sky a darkened shade, and once pale clouds bleached. Dove sat restlessly that night, pondering many notions. Many moral. All questions deep within him stood unanswered. Unquestioned due to faltered luck and inability. He was left frustrated. Incapable of assertion. Empty. Left only to gaze at the glittering stones above.
ᎥᏖ ᏝᏬᏕᏖᏋᏒᏋᎴ. .
". .O'ρԹʅȝ ՅɿՐԺ, O'ԲʅՄԵԵȝՐɿՌԳ ԲȝԹԵɧȝՐ." The Elder navigated closer with a sturdy stick of birch.
Dove was confident the Elder had long returned to a safer location. Many sanctuaries riddled the journey to the Sunset Fort, all swift to accept refugees, so why was the elder present here? Without any obligation, Dove was left unsure.
"What plucks your feathers, ρԹʅȝ ՅɿՐԺ. ." Spoke the elder, frowning.
Beyond the sights of his blindfold, Dove was sure he was under his gaze. If not his, then perhaps a higher being. All foreign to him. Hidden behind that gaze were the unknown itself and likely all the answers. Though for Dove, he was unsure of what he wanted to find, unaware of his purpose, unknown of his meaning. Not even he could understand his own. Why does he, the ρԹʅȝ ՅɿՐԺ, belong to these prophecies? The thought riddled his mind.
"Because the ρԹʅȝ ՅɿՐԺ, o'so ρԹʅȝ , can shift the world with a single feather." The Elder intruded on his thought.
"O'ԲʅՄԵԵȝՐɿՌԳ ԲȝԹԵɧȝՐ, your fate lies within your nest, yet to be made. All you have to do is gather the sticks." The Elder spoke airily.
Words still stood indirect, encrypted behind rambles and folktales. Dove listened but couldn't comprehend, so instead, he brooded in search of a connection. In search of a way to dismantle these poorly put-together encryptions, an answer to these questions deeply routed within him.
The Elder offered a clasped hand to Dove, revealing something oddly familiar. A winged insect sat tiredly in the palm of his hand. To Dove, it resembled characteristics of both a moth and butterfly, though lacking its respective colors. The creature instead glowed, with an aura of white, almost pure at first glance, yet faint.
". .O'ρԹʅȝ ՅɿՐԺ, I offer this to you. Like you, they lack purpose. O'ԲʅՄԵԵȝՐɿՌԳ ԲȝԹԵɧȝՐ, under your hand, it is likely to glow brightly." The Elder gently sat the glowed into Dove's hands, his wrinkled face forming into a smile. "Relish O'ρԹʅȝ ՅɿՐԺ. Your chirping voice has long been forgotten, and as such, you cannot refuse."
The Elder was right, and reluctantly Dove withheld the creature in his hands. Caressing its silk texture with a gentle finger.
"It is yours to nurture o'ԲʅՄԵԵȝՐɿՌԳ ԲȝԹԵɧȝՐ." The Elder completed.
Deeply engrossed in his fragment of thought, Dove was stood