Lost Creek Hollow venustas

Ico had spent these past weeks musing woefully over the warnings of Merrick, dwelling on the disturbed leader's prediction that someone was coming to punish Merrick for his misdeeds, and that it might be down to little Ico to sweep Astara and the Bearberries out of harm's way. The young storyteller had picked over every aspect of this, again and again. Who was coming? And why exactly? How could he ever hope to influence Astara, perhaps the fiercest warrior he'd ever met, and where would they even go? But most of all — when? The sun would set only to rise once again, and nobody had come to obliterate Merrick; making it even more likely that they might come the following night.

Restless despite a lack of sleep, Ico crossed the Valley borders that afternoon in search of distraction more than anything else. By the evening, he'd finally managed to track, hunt and devour a small rabbit — which marked a noted improvement in his hunting skills of late. He was just thinking of the man who'd inspired in him this improvement, when he stood bolt upright — a deep howl rend the yellowing sky, and Ico knew at once that it was him. Germanicus. Pulse beating an almost aggressive cadence against his slender neck, Ico set a smooth pace in the direction of the howl, and then there he was, it was him, tall and statueque against a backdrop of dark cedars.

It's you...