Silverlight Terrace it rattles the bones of our fathers, carries whispers from the dead

Maybe it was a bit melodramatic, the whole wandering in a moonlit field at night bit, but truly, Lullaren could not sum up how much he didn’t care. Drama was his brand, his metaphorical shackles, the reason he cried crocodile tears to the moon who he knew could hear him (it could not, it was a rock, he knew this and yet he, once again, did not care for more than a moment).

With the moon as his only witness, so he believed, the moonspun grasses tickled his underbelly, his black coat soaking in the softer touch of the colder sister to the cheerful sun. But, Lullaren didn’t scorn her the lack of brightness. He didn’t truthfully care much, content to wander forward with little bobs of his head, tipping from side to side to side, ears bouncing, doing a smooth jig in a slow circle. A dance without a partner, a song without its refrain. A beautiful, broken thing, and he was an expert on those in particular. Why, it’s what he saw every time he looked into the water, the face of someone he did not know. He wondered who he looked like. He truthfully wondered if he should care.

As soon as the thought occurred to him, he shucked it. The bard had no cause to care for, nothing to show up on his CV when he smacked it on the desk. Lullaren was whoever he was for the night, and nobody else. That was how his cookie had crumbled.

So, the voidtouched troubadour continued his moonlit waltz beneath the cratered moon, the light his only partner.