Sun Mote Copse seems every castle is made of sand

arcturus fell to a shocked silence, his lip contorted in a grieving frown as wraen brushed him away from towhee and pippin. he did not spare a glance to them as he went, following as demurely as a lamb in his friend's wake.

what was he to do? suddenly, the problems in his life seemed enormous and insurmountable, like an unclimbable crag that was threatening at any moment to come tumbling down atop him. had it always been this hard to breathe?

arcturus didn't even smile as he would have normally at wraen's last little joke - it took all of his willpower to keep his boiling emotions tightly lidded in this moment; he feared if he spoke, it would all come loose in a torrent of pandora's-box style plagues and maladies. and what would wraen think of her friend, simpering and crying like a little boy?

steel up, came a firm and unkind voice somewhere in the back of his mind. no one likes a crybaby. not wraen, not nobody. the mountaineer lifted his chin ever so imperceptibly, his doleful gaze resting on wraen as he waited for orders on where to go like a lost little soldier.