There is an undug grave in the eastern edge of the fields.

Rather—dug, then undug. Its marker, a slab of sandstone that reads SANTIAGO, has been tossed somewhat carelessly to the side. Piles of dry dirt lay strewn around the plot’s previously exact edges. It is a perfect spring night: the sky is a dark velvet blue, sprinkled only with the suggestion of stars, and a warm breeze ruffles Sussuro’s long, golden grasses. Field mice chatter and rustle against the wheat. It could be a painting. But something is off. The darkness that surrounds is practically glutinuous; the moon, conspicuously, is nowhere to be found. In fact, the scene would be impossibly, impenetrably black to anyone not standing within just a few yards. 

And that position has already been taken.

The stranger is unnaturally dark. Many things would seem so here, but he... he is different. Tall and well-built, his skin is oil-spill black from head to toe, marred only by a white snip and the silver of a myriad of scars. Even his wings are perfect pitch, like a crow’s, dripping ink from each feather. His eyes, though--

Striking cold green, like spring, and filled with a bone-deep fear.

“Impossible,” he murmurs to himself, as if it matters. It comes out in a voice that is both penetrating and tremulous. Even in the dark, the green of his eyes are bright and paranoid: they scour the ground inch by desperate inch as he walks impatient circles around the now-empty grave, wings shuddering at his sides. To the bottom of the well, it is nothing but dark, dark, dark, woefully empty. No body. No offerings. No nothing.

“Impossible--” but his voice rises in pitch, because he knows that, however impossible it is, it has still happened.

For a moment, nothing but perfect silence. The world stops. He stares deep, deep into the bottom of the pit, absolutely still, wings hovering outward. Then he raises his head and howls into the dead-night in a voice filled with wild, dark rage: 

“Cicero, we have to wake them up!”


In the pre-dawn, there is only one small change to the Halcyon’s barracks.

The note posted on the heavy front door is a burnt and ripped, yellowed with age, in a girl’s neat, coarse handwriting.

W. 460
So, so obvious. Bad weather tomorrow but that’s fine. Should be at (near) Lorcan’s gravestone in the fields. Vespir wants confrontation first. Always, always - 

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info

Welcome to the Halcyon’s new sub-plot and scavenger hunt! Please do not respond to this post; if you’d like to participate, post in the Terrastellan board that you think this first clue is referring to and tag @redandblack in it, or tag me on Discord! 

There will be a series of clues and riddles following this one over the next month or two and dice rolls involved later. Although this quest is based on Halcyon lore, anyone who catches wind of the clues is free to join in at this point; don’t worry about court or flying ability juuuust yet.

Please PM me (RB) here or on Discord if you’ve got any questions! <3