Alune had never been so deep into the mist before, as he walked further north, caught in the undertow of his own thoughts and memories. It was not an uncommon sight for the members of the Edge, to see their dark hued Seer walk alone to every edge of their herdland. The only difference was this time he walked like a stallion possessed, pulled along by unknown threads, left in the hands of an unseen force to guide him while his soul searched in another realm.

Once upon a time, he may have been able to do that, now the power was no more than a whisper upon the western winds. Sometimes he missed his powers, he missed the glow that had wreathed him in a soothing light, he missed the glittering starlight which had rained softly on his midnight form, each kiss the light pressed upon his silver hair leaving a glowing memento as the astral orb faded from existence. He missed spreading wings wove from the stars and the very threads of the night sky, their form constantly pulsing in and out of existence at his sides.

He missed his all sight, a gift he shared with the Verdant Oracle, to see into realms of what had been if sentient beings had not shaped the World for their own needs. Such wonders, and such comforts were a World Away. Often, he thought of his fellow Oracles, his fellow family as they had come to find of each other. Despite their age differences, their assurances in being at one anothers sides until the Gods and Goddesses called them home had been the drive they all looked to, if one required support, they would have it by the air, the earth, the arcane, the waters and the very threads of time. Here, he was absent of such ardent support, there were many who doubted the Goddess, and his halls were not so vibrant as he knew them to be.

Then there is his quest, it lays open and incomplete, like a tome penned by a sorceror who is not yet finished. Oh the rune work and writing is neatly mapped out, scrawled in elegant ink and careful words pressed upon the parchment in chaste kisses. Yet, it all too soon becomes to a stop in a frustrating end, the build up is left without a continuation to the frustrated reader — to the anger and annoyance of the Sorceror's mind.

He wandered until he tripped, pulled back to the very real plane of existence as he stumbled and buckled to regain himself. If he was any other, he might have bellowed, but he remains silent in his surprise at the tangled vines and roots he has tripped upon. The stallion is elegant despite his size, in regaining his ground, a puff of misted air exhaled from his nostrils as he turned to look at the offending roots.

Roots and vines they are, but there is something not of the verdant which dwelled within their grip. It glitters and shimmers with a midnight blue hue, it gleams like carefully smithed glass. Glass that he has crafted and breathed life into. Intrigued, he stepped forward, horns lowered to carefully cut away the roots which he cannot coax to give up their prize and rewrap the vines around them as a suitable replacement to the treasure they had embraced.

What he finds is a time lost treasure, abandoned to the throws of time and the plants to claim it for themselves. The glass work shimmers like iridescent dragon scales, the plating adorned with careful etchings and spikes. It is truly a wonder, a wonder he finds himself annoyed that his herd kin have managed to lose. It should be worn, and worn it shall. Let it be worn by the very conduit of the moon, whose markings are gently and expertly carved to mark it as the armor of the Moon Goddess.

He took his time to retrieve it, each step involved moving the pieces with difficult to onto himself. It is heavy, but glorious. It is a weight he is glad to carry. If it was styled and crafted with banners and tapestries upon it, it would look no different to the armor of his homeland, specifically those crafted for the brave stallions and mares who danced in the air with dragons.
Finally, it all upon him and he took a moment to stand and reflect, feel the weight and learn to adjust his posture accordingly. He will learn to work with it, until the weight strengthens his back and he moves swift, now he feels as though he is a shard of his former self. A Warrior beneath the pious banner of his Lady Moon, who was her fury as much as her gentle hand.