The view north of Marlock City was a dismal sight. There were no quilted-like patterns of farmland or lush green forest. The heath looked barren of life, save for the occasional scraggly tree, branches spread out like bare tentacles in a vain battle to survive among the rocky outcrops. Dull, grey clouds blanketed the sky, offering no color to bring the hope of vibrancy and life to low hills.
At first, the only sound Trystan could hear was the calls of a raven. Then, after walking for a good half-hour or so, his trained sense of hearing picked up the sound of footsteps that did not match his own. Footsteps and the thud of a wooden staff. Similar to how he was walking, but lighter in step and weight. Behind him, someone was following. Out in the desolate heath, there would be no place to duck for cover. Instead of turning to confront whoever was behind him, he continued for another hour to determine how long this person would follow without a word or incident. In that time, the footfalls gradually drew closer, until a side glance to his left revealed the vibrant hues of a certain priestess Trystan was convinced he had abandoned. Had hoped he had abandoned. Apparently, that was not the case.
“I won’t help you,” he stated firmly as they continued to trek northward, the volcanic peak barely a visible line on the horizon. “Not yet,” she responded with an air of certainty. “Not ready yet,” Ysolt persisted, as if he had expected her to explain herself. The wayfarer was barely paying her much attention at this point. His focus was on other out-of-place sounds as his green eyes scanned the terrain. While she had wanted to explain further, to tell Trystan that Maka had come to her in her dreams, explaining how the man who would suddenly appear seemingly out of nowhere was blessed and to be aided, the priestess understood that his focus was elsewhere.
The sunset shifted the muddy hues of the heath to deep purples with barely a hint of the flaming oranges one usually associates with the waning light. It was the hour of twilight when Trystan finally slowed his pace and considered where to set up camp. He looked for an area that might be void of the dense shrubs that covered the ground. Ysolt’s deep teal eyes kept watch around them, her steps shifting as she turned around and noted an ethereal light shimmering toward them. She backed up and reached out to grip his arm, drawing his attention with a gesture of her staff.
The freckles dotting his cheeks rippled as he narrowed his eyes, squinting to get a clearer picture of what approached. Crouching down to the ground, he placed his palm firmly on the ground. They appeared to be a herd of horses, almost as black as midnight. Yet, the ground did not tremble at their approach. “They are not natural,” he hissed grimly, untrusting of their presence and what omen they might represent. As they galloped closer, the pair could see that their manes and tails glistened with starlight dancing among wisps of smoke. “Amazing,” Ysolt gasped as she secured her staff to the gear on her back.
The man backed away from the herd’s trajectory and looked to see if the priestess had moved as well. She hadn’t, to his surprise and concern. “They’ll trample you!” Trystan called just as the ghostly, almost green-hued horses raced on by without so much as a sound of hooves beating on the ground. He backed away further and caught a glimpse of Ysolt reaching out, launching herself at one of the horses, heaving herself up onto its back. She was mad! That’s all he could think was that she was insane with curiosity and whimsy! No sense of preservation! These were not natural beasts! Why would she do such a thing?!
And why was he giving chase after the herd?!
Trystan could not explain it as he paced himself, running behind the majestic creatures that made not a sound as they cantered through the land known as Curstmoor. They were faster than he was, but he kept running if only to keep them, keep Ysolt in sight. She stood out among the sparkling light that twinkled from their manes, the colors of her robes billowing about her in waves like the Northern Lights. The priestess looked back once to see that the young wayfarer was following. Her pearly-white teeth gleamed as she grinned at the thought that he was concerned for her safety. Ysolt turned to face forward again, to marvel at the firmness of the horse’s green body, and the ethereal nature of its mane.
It was not long, though, that she realized that the herd was galloping toward the rocky wall of a tall hill. They were showing no signs of detouring around it. The priestess steeled herself when she saw the first couple of horses pass through the mound of earth, stone, and grass. Her heart pounded against her chest with anticipation of the oncoming collision. The horse did not attempt to fling her off; still, her legs tightened in defiance of her own apprehension.
From the distance from which he followed, Trystan saw flashes of light as the herd vanished from sight. As he ran closer, he saw that in their place was a hill. His ruddy skin grew pale as he wondered what the flashes meant, and where the horses and their rider could have gone.
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