Ravensblood Forest it is the stones for altars

’Aure?’

Time melded itself into the skulking fog, crawling slower and slower until it seemed to be going backwards. The Rhaesuian couldn’t breath, much less think, as all sense died within him. He simply stood there, wavering, quivering, feeling so much—too much. His stomach pitched, and he felt so numbingly faraway from it all, the theories and concepts of everything before him wrenched from beneath him, like stone, like the ice that had felled him.

With muted breath, he advanced, and said nothing, absolutely nothing but: ”How... in heavens do you know that name?” The foreign tone unnaccusing but strained, fervent; thick-tongued and face incredulous, as if half-dreaming. He barely allowed the appearance of the make before him to register as he, himself, came to view.

The masculine counterpart of Aure was there, yes, but her brother was also not. His eyes, though not unwelcoming, were more hidden, private; he had the stolidness to him that Aure lacked, but almost shared her under-height. Instead, he was middling, compared to most males in the Wilds.

But the scars were there, coursing about a star-dusted gaze. There was no mistaking it.