Hideaway Strath stjärnbild

The night was no clearer this evening.

A storm had rolled over the mountains and to Skärm's surprise, he had woken with half of his body in a puddle. He had not intended to fall asleep in a riverbed — alas, he did not know this land well enough to avoid it this time.

As the rain pelted at him from overhead, the boy mourned. He knew the stars as endless, eternal things. Beloved. No matter where he went he knew they were there, even as the sky wept and hid them away. He missed looking upon them — he mourned that absence.

Rosenskärm did this, knowing it was only a matter of time before they were clear again. They would guide him to a better place. A dry place, he hoped with a small huff.

He went to climb across some roots raised like bare knuckles from the soil, then through a carpet of ferns and moss, to a sheltered space beneath a giant old tree, where he shook the rain and mud from his coat. It would do no good in the long run, but for a few seconds Rosenskärm felt a little better.