Lion Head Mesa dyestain

A breath fell from him, sucked from his lungs by her touch, by her voice filling the room. Arsenio smiled to her, pleased to find himself so close to the maid that he could bask in both her scent and her gaze without worry of being seen.

He held her and listened as she asked him to speak of his village. He could only assume that she meant the peak he had been thrown from. But even then, he had spent time in other villages longer than he ever had in the place he’d been born.

I have known many dens in many villages, he rumbled softly to her. On Rhamnus Peak, it was a large stone cave that looked over the sea. To topple from the edge would mean certain death. Or so it was believed. Arsenio had been thrown from that very ledge and had washed ashore days later. Death had not taken him when it so easily could. After this, it was a forest of thieves and rogues. Those who served only themselves. A dense forest with long shadows and bleakness in the air.

The man hadn’t thought of his homes often. He did not like to reminisce on such things.

My favorite was again by the sea. The sands were gold. The skies were blue. The waters were like shimmering jewels. It was the only place I have known peace. And even it was gone.