Upon the throat of Night, the moon hung like polished horn. A star jewelled chain fixing its place prominent in a boundless expanse where things often remain unseen, unnoticed, and anything if not ephemeral. So few eyes sought this time of night. So few gave thought to turn their gaze past the how and why of a solitary life lived hour to hour. Unaware of the candid places barely hidden, where flowers bloom unbidden just past, and above the snarled tangles of reason, and the colorless mundane. Set beneath, Arahim settled down in the dormant orchard within the walls of Cove. Leafless, and dry, swaying Winter limbs scratched at the sky. Caught by the intermittent touch of wind, carefully held aloft. Subtle lyrics to the song of a season that cannot last. The ground was frozen hard, and broke audibly to pebbled powder with every step he took to get here. Pocked, and grey, the soil lay as monument to a cycle that, at times, refused to yield to, or even acknowledge, the gifts of anything new. Change is an act of attrition.