Witch's Marsh kiss your eyelids in the morning as you start to raise your head

being without calder was like being without a shadow, and that was something that took time to get used to. whoever heard of living without a shadow?

but as baby birds left the nest, and tiny turtles made the perilous crawl toward the sea, so too did cortez from his shadow, his strength and stability. his brother was the only constant left in an ever-changing existence; now he was completely unmoored, and it was at once both exhilarating and dreadful.

cortez was much too old for this "striking out on your own" shit. nearly twenty seasons he'd been on this earth and not much to show for it. just a jumbled collection of songs and stories, tales he'd taken from travelers that had long passed him by. he wondered if he would ever make something of himself; he wondered if anyone ever really did.

how did one do that? the notion of success, of "growing up," seemed incredibly subjective. like, some souls just seemed to get it, and others never did. some reached for the stars and latched on, and some plummeted; still others were content to lounge in the sun until it burned them all up and they were one with the ground that had birthed them.

cortez identified most with that latter group, and it sometimes made him sick.

this place was ugly as sin, but at least it was somewhat dry, all frozen over as it was. it inspired nothing within him; it was merely another stop on the road to everywhere and to nowhere. he shuffled slowly and aimlessly through, pushing back the hunger pangs that'd plagued him for days and blinking back the sleep that threatened to suck him down like the swamp mud beneath his paws, 'cept it was—frozen.

the bard yawned and paused, eyelids fluttering shut as he took a quick piss, the urine bouncing off the frost and steaming on the air. thus relieved (in body if not in soul) cortez continued on, lifting his chin when he caught sight of a pale shape nearby. he meant to pass it by if not for the note of damning familiarity in the scent that drifted his way.

well, fuck if it wasn't. . . no. it wasn't, was it? it couldn't be. shit like this just didn't happen; those who left had left and were gone to the dimension wherever all the faces from previous chapters in his life went. none of them had ever wandered back, and cortez was inclined to think that trend would continue.

but he got closer, and his gaze and nose and fucking common sense began to beat down everything he'd ever taught himself about chance and fate. still, if it was a failure in philosophy, it was one that was wholly welcome to cortez.

olive, he called out to her, eyes growing wide—so pale as they were, they more resembled moons than anything else. i'm trapped in a dream or dead; nothing else could explain this. he continued to approach, slowly shaking his head in utter disbelief.