[AW] gone with the fallen leaves

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow* Asterion does not know what lurks in the shadows after nightfall. He has a rough idea: he’s heard the stories, begged for them through his spindle-legged colthood. And at Ravos, he saw a touch of darkness, felt the feral magic churning underneath. It strove, perhaps, to become more - if it had, perhaps then the bay would have learned. But its darkness manifested instead as a rift, and after a coward’s period of waiting the boy had followed his fellows into it. It had not taken him where it had put them. So Asterion, ever a wanderer, has no qualms regarding wandering Novus as the late autumn day hurries on toward evening. As he goes he plays the game he always does: imagining his worries washing out with the tide, drifting further and further until they are out of sight. He’s in the midst of this exercise when a splash of color draws his dreamer’s eyes; late-season leaves turned to fire by the lowering sunlight, reds and golds that gleamed like gems. It is only because his attention has been so captured by the stand of trees that he notices the movement within them; his dark-eyed gaze drops to the mare and he pauses, considering. Likely she has already seen him, and he wonders if she’s hiding. It tugs a wry smile from his dark lips, to consider anyone hiding from him, and he discards the notion before considering it from her point of view. Asterion has been a pilgrim for long enough to know the look of someone far from home. As the wind rises, stirring his thickening coat and ruffling his silver-shot mane, he moves toward her, ears forward and limbs loose and easy. He pauses a few lengths from her, letting the rattle of the leaves quiet above them, before offering a quiet sort of smile. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but you look like I felt when I first arrived here. I’m Asterion – this is Novus.” She needn’t know, yet, that he is a poor guide; he’s been here less than a season, himself, and the Dusk Court is not yet home. @Himawari