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Location: Outside Tephe's Eastern Border

Prompt: Sometimes the short end of the stick is the sharpest.

Theme

Summary

They searched tirelessly, their paws aching and raw from the relentless pursuit. Yet, despite their best efforts, they couldn't keep pace with him. Zeke had slipped away, vanished into the unknown. Eigel, the only other witness to Zeke's departure, returned to the Keep to organize a search party. If the barbarian was not there, she would have collapsed right then.

In a final desperate bid, Maeve continued her chase, her heart pounding in her chest. But no matter how desperately she tried, he eluded her, carried away by the autumn winds.

Their breath came in ragged gasps as they trudged wearily across the heather-strewn moor. Eventually, their body forced them to their haunches, too exhausted to continue the relentless pursuit. With head hanging low between their shoulders, she succumbed to her own emotions, heaving sobs wracking her body, shaking her to her core. Another loved one gone, departed without farewells or warning. The pain was so intense it felt like a searing fire, simultaneously burning hot and icy cold. Panic gripped her heart, rendering her helpless in the merciless tide of life, which seemed determined to tear everything she held dear asunder. Was this the price, the very cost Anselm had cautioned her about? Or was it merely a cruel jest of fate? Did she deserve this agony? Slowly, Maeve began to believe that she did, her body folding in on itself. It was as though she couldn't breathe, as if reality itself was a suffocating force. Breathe caught; she feared she might choke.

As the Vicar struggled to regain a semblance of composure, the wind rose, tousling her perpetually tangled fur, as if the very essence of the world urged her onward. But she couldn't. Her frail legs trembled, barely supporting her weight. She began to wail, her cries shattering the silence of the desolate moorland hills. She wilted, screamed, howled, her voice carrying her despair into the sky. Somewhere deep within, she clung to the hope that if he could hear her, he might turn back, return to her. She couldn't bear the thought of losing another soul. To death or another, especially when the unknown certainty of survival loomed.

Yet, above all, she screamed, her voice cracking with the fury she directed at herself. She raged against her own helplessness, against her inability to mend the brokenness within Zeke. She raged against the loss that had hollowed her out, against the emotions she had suppressed for so long, now unattainable. She raged against her own recklessness, against the cruel whims of the world and her place within it. Until, ultimately, all she could do was curl up where she sat, weeping into the unforgiving earth, praying to Hithar for the strength to find her way back home.

TheStarvingRaven (c) Maeve
Art by TheStarvingRaven

Description

Previous | Next...

Location: Outside Tephe's Eastern Border

Prompt: Sometimes the short end of the stick is the sharpest.

Theme

Summary

They searched tirelessly, their paws aching and raw from the relentless pursuit. Yet, despite their best efforts, they couldn't keep pace with him. Zeke had slipped away, vanished into the unknown. Eigel, the only other witness to Zeke's departure, returned to the Keep to organize a search party. If the barbarian was not there, she would have collapsed right then.

In a final desperate bid, Maeve continued her chase, her heart pounding in her chest. But no matter how desperately she tried, he eluded her, carried away by the autumn winds.

Their breath came in ragged gasps as they trudged wearily across the heather-strewn moor. Eventually, their body forced them to their haunches, too exhausted to continue the relentless pursuit. With head hanging low between their shoulders, she succumbed to her own emotions, heaving sobs wracking her body, shaking her to her core. Another loved one gone, departed without farewells or warning. The pain was so intense it felt like a searing fire, simultaneously burning hot and icy cold. Panic gripped her heart, rendering her helpless in the merciless tide of life, which seemed determined to tear everything she held dear asunder. Was this the price, the very cost Anselm had cautioned her about? Or was it merely a cruel jest of fate? Did she deserve this agony? Slowly, Maeve began to believe that she did, her body folding in on itself. It was as though she couldn't breathe, as if reality itself was a suffocating force. Breathe caught; she feared she might choke.

As the Vicar struggled to regain a semblance of composure, the wind rose, tousling her perpetually tangled fur, as if the very essence of the world urged her onward. But she couldn't. Her frail legs trembled, barely supporting her weight. She began to wail, her cries shattering the silence of the desolate moorland hills. She wilted, screamed, howled, her voice carrying her despair into the sky. Somewhere deep within, she clung to the hope that if he could hear her, he might turn back, return to her. She couldn't bear the thought of losing another soul. To death or another, especially when the unknown certainty of survival loomed.

Yet, above all, she screamed, her voice cracking with the fury she directed at herself. She raged against her own helplessness, against her inability to mend the brokenness within Zeke. She raged against the loss that had hollowed her out, against the emotions she had suppressed for so long, now unattainable. She raged against her own recklessness, against the cruel whims of the world and her place within it. Until, ultimately, all she could do was curl up where she sat, weeping into the unforgiving earth, praying to Hithar for the strength to find her way back home.

TheStarvingRaven (c) Maeve
Art by TheStarvingRaven