Zerura

All light had been laid absent along the blanket of twilight above, heads and ceilings protected by only gentle streams of moonlight pooling through rows of bare windows. Those awake already knew it to be a clouded night before peering at the soft hues above, the stars speckling behind a dusty white cloud, whilst the distant trees were a mere silhouette behind them. The citizens of Loum felt protected.

Perhaps so, all but Lysander Son of Lysmir shared a mutual discerning towards their security, as his sleepless eyes scanned each wisp of undergrowth littered around the borders of the forest; nothing had ever dared to stir during the previous nights, yet a begging thought continued to itch the back of his mind. Tonight urged importance.

Without the whisper of his conscience telling him so, his fingers guided their way to the limb of his bow, tracing a feeble pattern to tease the impulses of his growing wonder. His grip tightened, and the floorboards groaned under his weight as he roused himself from the blanketed pallet he perched upon.

With his cloak hugged over his shoulders, he slunk into the open space of his residence. All windows besides his very own had been previously boarded to satisfy his hysteria; the cities inhabitants found it difficult to trust that someone had been living in that wretched house the entirety of their time. To Lysander, the wretched house had been his source of reassurance, well aware of the smell and worn down features that were vulnerable to collapse at any moment.

He weaved his way through the maze of upturned furniture, a reminder of his manic frenzies; he often underwent episodes containing continuous thoughts of spying equipment planted around his house, though no evidence had ever been proven that there was. Shaking off his insecurity, the reminder left him helpless, and pushed at the wooden barriers boarded against his door: a large table and all six of his guest chairs stacked into a tower. Though small, his strength was plenty, and only a few heaves were enough to disrupt the blockade, and almost quietly to his contentment.

With his cloak hooded over his prominent features, he allowed his feet to peck at the road ahead, the gravel crunching underneath the pressure of his worn boots. His back, pressed against the wall, slid to meet with the corner, ensuring an efficient view of whatever he found himself to be searching for. Without a second thought or inquiry about his reason, he pressed his cheek against the chilled brick, glancing for the safety he needed. But to his own surprise, his superstition lay correct, as there had been a vex in his conscience after all.

Though he soon grew concerned of the approaching figure below the woodlands hem. Larger than any man he had seen, he swore, but his eyes were meek and the moons shine was dim, thus the stranger's features remained awaited mystery. Lysander contemplated the feasibility of his bow and disappeared behind the arched frame of the neighboring block, his threatening thoughts far behind him.

For the stranger, the moon behaved as a searchlight, although he could not be found by its silver beam, it was enough to assure him that he hadn't been walking in circles. He had been traveling for weeks, though from what was visible, he revealed no weariness.

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approximate word count: 563