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</div><span style="font-size: 26px"><b>Rhys Adaar</b></span><br/><b>Chosen By:</b>Cromm Cruach (Celtic)<br/><b>Location:</b>Forest<br/><b>Date/Time:</b>Noon, Dec 21st<br/><b>Wearing:</b>Outfit shown- except shirt is dark grey v-neck t-shirt, iron faery star and leather cord necklace.<br/><b>Tagging: </b>Clayton Barker (<a class="username" data-user-id="7193" data-username="Letum" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/7193/">Letum</a>)<br/><b>TRIGGER WARNINGS:</b>None<br/><hr class="bbc-hr bbc-hr--3"/><br/>The dormitory was... well. Exceedingly Celtic. The appraisal was far from a compliment, and he'd argued with the dean that his vardo was sufficient housing. It was solar-powered, meaning all Rhys needed was a spigot for water. If it meant not living in a Pictish nightmare that was only missing woad paint, he'd boil his damn water before using it. He made use of the dorm bathroom for showers and baths, and absolutely no other reason. Sure, he'd been living on Elysian Isle for the better part of two years, but he was not exactly the most social of people- a byproduct of a lack of patience for bullshit and a severe case of wearing his heart on his face. He went to classes, got food, and wandered back into the woods whenever he didn't have an event to DJ. And in the sacrosanct still of the forest, he could focus on what mattered most to him: communing with Cromm.<br/><br/>Rhys had been able to pick up the strange mannerisms for speaking fairly quickly, finding out within the span of the first day that the death god was rather taciturn. In the four years they'd been together, he'd heard the sonorous Gaelic only twice... though he frequently asked Cromm to speak, finding comfort in his voice. Cromm never dignified the requests with responses. It was an ongoing game of charades they played, based more on the sensation he could ascertain through their connection. Cromm would wait patiently for him to guess correctly, and then nod while flashing too-sharp teeth in what most would call a smile. He'd been told it was unusual for a god to deal directly with their Chosen, but from what he could tell he was one of very few who knew both names of the devouring Dark God... much less worshipped him. Maybe Cromm took a bit more time with him because he was one of the few that reveled in the hallowed hush only an eternal embrace could bring.<br/><br/>He was presently reclined in a<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fs3files.core77.com%2Fblog%2Fimages%2F261163_81_35614_YqHipHJmC.jpg&amp;hash=671d51bc6e50be8b6e0f33b004fc6fec" href="https://s3files.core77.com/blog/images/261163_81_35614_YqHipHJmC.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">bog chair</a>beneath the vivid emerald canopy of his<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fcdn.discordapp.com%2Fattachments%2F899019034098532422%2F990953124011319366%2Funknown.png&amp;hash=cf6f362fadcd6348a8ed0ace83a45906" href="https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/899019034098532422/990953124011319366/unknown.png" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">vardo</a>, watching the flames flickering through the star and moon cutouts of his fire pit. The familiar humanoid void that was Cromm sat just outside of the cast circle of light, looking down at the space between dancing light and consuming abyss. Rhys had long since learned that no one else could see him, and it was best not to discuss with other Chosen lest he be accused of being unstable. Cromm looked up toward the woods, the eight-pointed star glowing ice blue- what he assumed was his pupil- the only indication of which direction he was looking. Tension spread through his chest, serving as a warning from Cromm. The sensation was specific to his social anxiety, so likely it meant that someone was approaching.<br/><br/>Rhys flicked the ash from his joint into the fire, reaching barehanded into the flames to turn over the aluminum parcel on the cooking grate. Taking a slow drag, sage and gold eyes remained focused where his god was watching. Past the crack of the fire, he could hear footsteps in fallen leaves, faint in the still of his clearing. Brown-capped mushrooms ringed the small glade, punctuating the spaces between grand oaks, gnarled ash trees, and hawthorne bushes. Anyone who knew the hallmarks would know that this land was marked by fae, and the wrought iron<a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fi0.wp.com%2Froyalexaminer.com%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2022%2F01%2F1882-cemetery-fence.jpg%3Fresize%3D640%252C480%26ssl%3D1&amp;hash=3ecfae6e62a912de5ff419bbcfe85fc5" href="https://i0.wp.com/royalexaminer.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/1882-cemetery-fence.jpg?resize=640%2C480&amp;ssl=1" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">fence</a>surrounding the vardo, garden, and underground greenhouse marked the inhabitant as a fairly powerful fae. He exhaled slowly, tilting his head so the silver plume would curl outward from under his canopy. Better to remain silent, and see if the stranger was brave enough to wander into the clutches of the fae.