Graceful Rooms of Alabaster Stone

. . .



Cross slowly became aware of the fact that he was not alone. And though the fact that it had happened slowly told him he was not under immeidate attack, the warrior blood within him could not contain the slight lowering of his head and raising of his shoulders. The other male off to the side and slightly behind him, but Cross's ears were now dialed in on the slightest of movements; he didn't have to turn around.

In his travels -which were many despite his age, he'd met plenty of wolves, and against his first suspicions, most had been decent souls. He'd even been helped out by a few. But it only took one predator to slaughter the flock. Cross was painfully aware of what the violence inside a single loose soul could do, and though he had already surrendered himself to die blood one day, he did not intend for it to be this day.

Eventually, a sedate, simply toned voice was heard upon the cold winds. "Do you stand because you await a prime moment to attack? Or are you simply another observing wanderer who prefers the silence?" The white youth remained as still as stone, seeming to be perfectly content and prepared for either option. He still didn't bother turning around. His face was pointed towards the forest of pines and the mountain range far beyond. He'd been born in the roots of those vast towers of stone, but that was quite literally a lifetime ago. Back before he had found out what it was to witness death and gore. The effects had been astronomical upon his insides, but his silence on the outside had ensured that none knew just how heavy was his burden. It wasn't so much that he now detested the art of combat; no- he himself was a born warrior and always would be, and perhaps it was his curse to find security and purpose in the violence and bloodshed that he so detested. If the stranger was looking for a fight, then he would receive one, but Cross would much rather be left in peace



. . .