Bitterroot Valley shadows fall, and hope has fled

An errant smear of starlight draws the eye of the wayward prince, a streak of silverfire fallen from celestial throne. It seems that he, too, has been noticed. Thoughts of the path ahead fade from his mind, leaving Amadis statue-still once again, frozen in a moment of mutual wordless acknowledgement. He does not think to call out, nor approach the stellar-sterling stranger whose countenance at a second glance seems swathed in shadow, as if creeping terrestrial murk had gathered to meet the fallen star and now swarms, smothering with infectious inkblood tendrils. Something foreboding in the sight of it, and so the prince hesitates.