Ranger Lord Elaeryn Stardrifter

A letter arrives, bearing a golden wax seal depicting a half-sun - with a slight bulge among the wrapping. The Ranger Lord may, or may not recognize the sigil as that of Whitedawn. It has been a long time, after all - and she didn’t brandish as much too often in the past. Should he open it, the handwriting is far more composed than the young woman he’d remember ever seemed to be; that, and a small, wooden rabbit rolls out - one of a pair he’d carved with his own hands - now well-worn by another’s hands. It is, perhaps, more of a message than any of her written words can convey - he’s never left her thoughts.

The morning started calm and crisp as the Ranger Lord stepped outside with a mug of black coffee. It seems he means to be out only briefly, as his shoulders are bare beneath a fur-edged cloak shrugged hurriedly on, sleep-disheveled brown hair down and free. He leans against the cottage’s carved doorway, sipping at the pleasantly steaming beverage as smokey eyes take note of the expected pile of missives innocently waiting upon the doorstep. Once a fortnight the hidden outpost of Compass Pointe received a packet of missives from the homeland meant for himself or Captain Silvertread. Allowing them to remain untouched for now–a habit of unhurriedness rather unlike him which had been cultivated during this extended sabbatical–he takes a long moment instead to just be; taking in the grey sky, the matching sea beyond, and the gentle fluttering of snow-kissed pine boughs.

Only when both he and his beverage grow chilled does he put the near-empty mug down and move to fetch the scrolls and envelopes. Stooping and scooping them up, he notes how much smaller the piles have become over time–much to his liking. Thumbing through the papers quickly, he strides back toward the doorway, about to toss them onto a small table on the porch…when something unusual catches his eye: the golden half-sun wax seal fixed upon a small parcel.

The vice-grip of his steel trap mind grabs hold of the sigil, turning it over and over. His head cants to the side, brow furrowed as he tries his damnedest to place its vague familiarity. Putting the rest of the papers down carefully, he peers at the seal a moment longer before tentatively breaking it open. His gut twisted immediately as the carved hare rolls free of its packaging and falls mutely to the ground. Staring at it dumbly, finally the silence is broken with a word equally disbelieving and poisoned. “Lily…?” Upon reading the first few words of the accompanying letter, he knows he is right.

Drifter…

Finishing the letter through to the end once, he skims it again for good measure before crumpling the parchment, letting it fall unceremoniously next to the carved rabbit at his feet. For a long moment he is still and the air is quiet, punctuated by the occasional rush of winter breeze and distant lapping of the sea upon the shoreline. Finally, with a low growl, the Ranger Lord stalks away, pulling his cloak more securely around his shoulders, closing the gap between the cold air and his scarred chest. Brow knotted, his face dark and shadowed, he turns not for the cottage but instead forges a brusque path through the front yard. Making his way to the edge of the wood, he pauses to let loose a low whistle before entering, disappearing effortlessly into the hinterland.

Slowing only when he is deep within the forest, he pauses beside a fallen tree. Soon after, a rustle of foliage heralds the arrival of one of his oldest and most trusted companions: a grizzled old chestnut-and-gray direwolf. Standing perfectly still, the two hunters lock eyes and appraise one another cautiously, each seemingly waiting for the other to flinch. Finally, the corner of the Ranger’s mouth quirks, and the wolf pants happily, his tongue lolling as he springs forward and they greet one another properly.

Curling his fingers through the wolf’s thick fur as though questing for something solid and real, Elaeryn sinks down onto the log to take a moment to reflect. The wolf peers up with quizzical amber eyes, the gray around his muzzle lighter now than it was in the memory surging through his master’s mind: the time when he and the writer of that missive clasped hands over the wolf’s shaggy back in quiet understanding that…’this was the end’. “Why now, Gideon?” he murmurs. “Why is she writing me NOW, after all these years? Every word drips with the same plaintive yet self-pitying tone she always had…yet surely there is that same stubbornness to do anything proactive about her pain as she seeks for me to assuage it.”

The wolf whines, taking a seat next to his master. Patting his back, the Ranger Lord sighs, removing the knife from his belt. He notes his hand shakes just slightly, and immediately he snarls; then recalls his training. Taking a few deep belly breaths, slowly in and slowly out, he channels the peace of the forest until he is formless and at one with everything around him. Only then does he open his eyes and calmly pluck up an errant hunk of tree branch. Gideon shuffles and makes a small sound in the back of his throat.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, I will respond. Maybe I will even meet with her. But not today, Gideon. Not yet.” He shifts slightly, the knife glinting as he gets as comfortable as he can. “First, this.” At that he gets to work, the knife flying with confident precision as if it were an extension of himself. He works upon the wood, transmuting it; while on some other level, old feelings rising unbidden are simultaneously carved down to their essence, the shavings falling about his feet. The wolf’s gaze lingers until he seems satisfied and lies down then, his bulk both protective and calming.

As if an echo to the Ranger’s mindfulness activity, a light snow begins to fall, blanketing the pair in silence.