[center][h3]~~~ [color=Silver][i]Vildrel Könire[/i][/color] ~~~[/h3][/center]

	The village was a daft existence of isolation. Yorahal had the character of a husk, a humble existence of astonishing forgetfulness that aptly persists despite all protests of time. Each soul subjected to its tormented existentialism was unbothered, filtered out by a fog that sounded like the batting of gull wings. Few smiled for the entrance of the Trespassers. The fact of it all made Vildrel frown but a small amount, for it was the only place they weren't truly trespassing on.

	Iskra handled the delivery without much grace. He spoke the tongues of tradesman better than she did, as did most of her sect's own skillset surmount to. Her ways were in the eyes of her beheld patience. Something bristled in the wind, in the trees and gentle brooks that had gotten lost on their way to the river. Marshes vanished behind a mirage of hills and mildews, whilst the rolling passage of time seemed to tread around the village as though a stain on a city's pavement. Yorahal welcomed them with a silent stare, but it wasn't unfriendly. That much she could be grateful for. Eventually, an echo seemed to bellow through the fog - a herald which drastically called her without even saying Vildrel's name.

	"Festival...of Breaking..." The words left her mouth like liquid fascination. Of course she knew the name. In a life before a life, she'd heard it as a dream of elders' part time stories. There was endless dreams in the frost that it promised to glisten. Wherein the thoughts, she found her fingers become delicately warm against the frostbitten shroud. She tightened her cloaks and indulged in her furs evermore.

	She left with a note on Iskra's lap, detailing that should she have returned, the venture of her lifetime may never have been worth it at all. She had every intention to return home, to the homeless nomads, but in her sense of endangered curiosity, she had ventured into the fallows with un-neat white hair, with her heart alight and a golden glisten in her eyes. Somewhere out in the world, a figure prayed for her, and she felt the breath of each verse make for her soul. How beautiful, it said, and she agreed wholeheartedly.