[Child of the 7th Age]

Ealasaide -

Sorry you don't feel well.

Pio -

Could you please put this in your save for the evening? I believe it is #299. Many thanks.

I have also put up another save....

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Aiwendil awoke with a start and sat upright, staring off into the shadows. The glare of the mid-day sun had vanished, replaced by a sky that was dusky grey with the first stars of evening visible overhead. For a single instant, the old man forgot why he was sitting here and what had happened earlier in the day. Then he glanced down and spied a lone grayish brown feather of considerable length half buried in the sand. The istar bent down to retrieve it and tucked the plume well under his belt as a silent reminder of the pledge he had made that afternoon.

Aiwendil turned and trotted towards the lights of camp, anxious to hurry back and talk to Rôg. Cutting through the tangle of tents and maenwaith , he overheard snatches of conversation between friends and family who were gathered near the funeral bier. People spoke of Ayar’s warmth and kindness and how much she was already missed. They also railed against the villian who had done this thing and exchanged puzzled whispers about Sorona’s dream and what it might mean to the clan.

Several onlookers mentioned a rumor that a Great Eagle had been spotted at mid-day, tracing majestic circles high over the camp at a time when most maenwaith were inside eating their noon meal or resting from the heat of the day. Only a few had actually seen the great bird, and many who had not argued that these others were wholly mistaken: it was nothing more than an illusion brought on by grief or an over lengthy stay in the sun. Yet some disagreed and said that the Eagle was a positive portent for the struggle yet to come.

Aiwendil cringed a bit when he heard this part of the discussion. Lengthening his strides, he soon arrived at the tent, which was set back a ways from the main bustle of the camp. He pushed aside the flap and walked inside. Inviting odors coming from a small stewpot on the coals greeted him, but his companion Rôg was nowhere nearby. Nor did he see the guard who usually stayed somewhere in the vicinity of the tent. Aiwendil bent down to retrieve his heavy cloak that had somehow come to be sitting on a mat in the middle of the floor. To his surprise, a piece of parchment fluttered out of its folds, revealing a short note written in a scholar’s neat script. He picked it up and read.

Some minutes later, the istar set down the note and sighed. He had known for some time that Rôg planned to leave. Despite the young man’s reticence to speak too openly, he could clearly read it in his restless eyes. Something was bothering Rôg, and it was not something that Aiwendil knew how to fix. The istar hoped that his friend would be able to find his answer by returning back to his family and clan.

Still, he knew he would miss him even more than he cared to admit. Aiwendil had managed on his own many times before and had usually sought solace by seeking out the companionship of birds and beasts. This time, though, his thoughts were quite different. His fingers strayed to the grey and brown feather hidden underneath his belt. The istar let his mind drift out over the camp and tried to pinpoint the one person he most needed to see. He glimpsed her standing off by herself perched on a rock and peering up at the stars. Aiwendil buried the last of the smoldering coals under a handful of sand and then hastily sprang to his feet. His cloak lay tossed on the floor, his dinner untouched and forgotten, as he left the tent and went off in search of Ráma.