Whitefish River frater meus, you're beautifully made

It was dark upon the flatlands. Even the silver moon casting its great spotlight upon the lands did nothing to rid it of its shadows. The wind rustled the grasses, tugging gently upon the fur of those out in the open, sweeping through the wide open spaces and filling the air with its song.

There was a river, at the edge of it all. Curving from the distant mountains, a silver streak like a fish’s silver scales. Beside it, a scar carved into the moonlit beach. Dark, foreboding, grim in every sense. The moon warped the frame until it was far more massive than the man beneath it. He had come here, his duty finished, and stood upon the precipice. One way, across the river where his scent would die out should anyone ever follow, led into the peaks and the unknown, the question. The other way, the mesa’s glowering shade in the far distance, standing at stark contrast to the flat surface in every other way. A waypoint, should anyone seek him.

He didn’t want anyone to seek him. Aquillius stood at the edge of the river, his single eye staring at the distant mesa, and he thought. He had an opportunity here. If he did not return to Akashingo, they would consider him a casualty. He shifted his weight, looking across the river. But, taken the other way, he had no idea where his father could be. Not the first clue, nor did he know who to ask. If Germanicus had come this way, he reasoned desperately, he’d have at least stopped at Akashingo right? So…either he hadn’t come this way at all, or he did and he avoided the Mesa wolves.

He didn’t know which hurt worse.

The raven stood at the crossroads, each way tempting him further, and waited for the demon to offer its deal.