In the noon, the sun at its zenith and sending sheets of glaring light across the land, and her shoulder, she stood before the board, stiffly reading each notice. Her eyes were alert, darting across the words, loking for a familiar name, an account of that which she searched. At best, her hope to the universe was vague, and it was forgotten by many. But she knew that that did not mean all.

Plucking from her cloak pocket a parchment paper and a quill, in being prepared for not seeing what she searched for, she scribbled hastily across the page what it was she had hoped in vain to see for herself.


To Rhy'Din

I am a smith who searches for a friend. During one of the movements between soldier and village, many perished and still ruins stand. During one of the raids, in the outer site of Rhy'Din North, was an encampment. There, a young man, Silas, was born, raised and possibly, died. I have no conviction of this for I believe by my eye.

His surname is Goodem. If anyone knows of this man, can recount this disaster and it causes you discourse, please seek me at The Forge within Rhy'Din's Marketplace. Leave a message for Blackbird, and it will be received.

Kindest


And she moved one of the pins down from a mostly tattered notice and used it for her own. A feeling came over her, rushed through her mind, paired with a tremor along the spine. Quickly she shook herself free of it, headed off into the haze of the too bright day, head hung, a wilted woman, tethered to this note as bare as the wind might seize it. Hope was fleeting.