Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-25038310-20160405011238/@comment-7203512-20160513031146

Hawksly seemed indifferent. He sheathed his shortsword and reached out to the bag hanging on a gravestone. Having tightly grabbed the wound, he hissed and sifted through the bag's contents in haste, hoping to find something to cover his eye with, to no avail. The young Breton hobbled away from the training field, brushing off his mentors' advice with a hushed "T-thanks-s, g-guys".

He perched on the gravestone, his cheek touching the ice-cold marble as a single, blackish tear made its way down once more. The wound still bled; Aelwin grabbed the knot of the rag and tightened it as well as he could, and the more he tried, the more unbearable the wound became, painting the dirty rag in a mixture of black and crimson. He took a couple of heavy breaths. The figure that haunted him for days, his nightmare, was before him again. Aelwin rolled his eyes, weary and nonchalant. The hooded lad was silent and docile this time, holding a white nightshade in his shaking, bloodstained hands. He sat down in front of the sickly boy, staring at him, before he placed the flower at young Hawksly's feet and slowly waved his hand as if bidding goodbye.

Aelwin blinked; no one was there. He drew himself up, uttering a stifled moan, as he felt something dangling in his bag. He put his hand to pull out a white nightshade, its petals crumpled and stained in black blood.

"I w-will n-never f-forget y-you..."