#runereads

"I'm sorry--I went away there for a second--I didn't mean to--"

The veil was thick and heavy as it dragged over his face, obscuring sight.

At times, he swore it felt like the welcoming petal-whisper of silk, scented honey sweet and safe, yet others it felt the coarse grate of jute, scratching his flesh in reprimand and memory, masking friend and foe--threat and salvation.

Rune was all at once himself--

All at once some distant echo elsewhere where it hurt everywhere.

Everywhere.

Everywhere.

The blade in his hand was the only anchor he had.

"Rune! No!"

A point, a drag of metal. Dagger catching armor and scraping off its mark in a deflection from the wild eagerness of his aim and feral fury.

The veil lifted, tearing at his senses as the world came into focus again and ice flooded his veins in stammering panic that threatened the stop of his heart.

Not again.

Please, not again.

"Pray believe me--it was not my intent--"

How many times had he dissolved as of late?

How many times had he gone away, back into the dark?

First, Errol--there in that very room he sought refuge in.

Again with Nerax in Skalla, and that time he had been armed...

Rune sprawled back along the bed, an arm draping to guard over his eyes as the card left its omen tucked in the pages of his journal.

I'm sorry.

Another morning.

Another chatter and sigh of cards.

A dull thrum in his temple marked the night before in a steady beat that matched the idle tempo of his hands, an unfamiliar room still trying to become familiar with what little invasion Rhun'ir’s presence could make of it.

He hadn’t met the fellow that had previously occupied the space, merely found it still housed most things unfit for extended travel and leave.

Shelves of books on the arcane and natural. Charts of stars and elements and things that made him feel so very small and lost somehow in a greater weave than he thought he saw in the world most days.

An intellectual, then? Or at least one taken to curiosities in fancy.

In this perhaps they were alike–Rhun'ir enjoyed learning and knowing the way of things, and the sudden kinship he felt for the echo of whoever had Been before dulled the unease somewhat that left him feeling so like a trespasser. Add to that the lot he had met last night even in passing and a haze of accursed Mash–well–perhaps his choices truly had been the right call.

… Save the Mash.

That remained a mistake.

Still, a restlessness gnawed at the core of his gut, sharpened by the slinking sliver of warning to an otherwise comforting reading. The miqo'te’s gaze drew away to regard his cup of water rested near along the low table’s surface where he lounged, a single digit nudging it closer to the edge.

“The Beaten Path.”

The name had amused Rhun'ir the first time he heard it.

Beaten Paths led to the Known and Familiar:

Smiles of friends and loved ones.

Well trod dirt of old trails echoing footfalls of those that had come before and guaranteed their safety.

Expectations easily met.

Comfort in repetitive mundanity.

This one apparently lay buried in an establishment called The Willing Well and that alone had hooked the miqo'te’s curiosity. How interesting that the source of this Beaten Path had taken him so far astray from his usual haunts within the Shroud to this old, haphazard building.

Rhun'ir regarded the rough exterior with a lofty tilt of his head, the gentle chime of gem and fine silver giggling in his stead with a flick of an ear in debate.

From his side, a hand lifted–palm passing along the old wooden door in brief hesitation.

Rain pattered along stained glass, shadows stretching seemingly from under the boughs of the great trees and add to the brooding early hours.

To have a roof over his head again was a rare treasure, and a fire however small in the hearth a blessing to ward away the chill that otherwise would have haunted and seeped into his bones.

Rhun'ir took solace in the relative quiet–enwrapped himself in it–and reflected.

The rain brought with it memories; it was only fitting.

Still, there was a drab touch of humor to his gaze as he regarded the cards, a fingertip tracing along illuminated lines.

The ritual began as it most often did with the ecstatic sigh of cards falling together in tumbling folds, pressing, and cutting between themselves once, twice, thrice before the stack was set atop an old scrap of a scarf.

There a tender palm set and pulled them into a sweeping arch, foiled backs winking up at the miqo’te in silent greeting before fingertips caressed in equal notation. The motion swept once along the length of them, then back until a sudden pause came as once a card seemed to catch and return his touch and was pulled to set before him.

A second followed—

A third.

It was with a certain delicacy he revealed their faces, their imagery bringing forth a contemplative tip of his head.

Ten Swords had brought him seeking refuge in the Shroud.

The fair omen before him bared Ten Cups.