There was a sense of celebration to be had, but the God of the Hunt was in anything but a celebratory mood. His brother wolf had all but abandoned him for a human who smelt of fear and patheticness and the world just no longer made sense. Clutched in his hands was his bow, once a weapon that brought him not only great joy but justice to the lands that were under his protection. On this day, it failed…though that was hardly fair for the bow was not the one who missed.<br/><br/>Weylyn was the one who missed.<br/><br/>Even now as he stood there in the silence on the outskirt of the camp, he remembered that moment. The look in her eyes as she was faced with the Tutar, fear mingled with righteous determination to not go gently. Fire burned in her eyes that told each and every creature there that they were about to be in for a fight for their lives. Even if she were to fall, she would be sure to take as many down with her. All he had to do was shoot one. Just one at her back and she would have been fine.<br/><br/>And he missed.<br/><br/>His hands tightened about the bow, the grains of the wood pressed into his callused palms only brought a fraction of pain though it threatened to be splintered under the power of the God.<br/><br/><span style="color: #00BFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">"You are a hunter, not an army. You could not save her, Weylyn. It was her time."</span></span>The presence of the man who was as much his father as the wolf that raised him comforted his troubled immortal soul though his words did little to ease his pain and guilt.<br/><br/>"No. It was not her time," bitter tone clung to his words as he looked down at his bow. "Her light was bright. Her skill unmatched, heart pure as gold and loyal as any wolf," his hands tighten on the worn material as for the briefest of moments he thinks about snapping it over his leg. "I missed. I caused her death."<br/><br/><span style="color: #00BFFF"><span style="font-weight: bold">Rolyn looked at the God that was like a son to him, and felt the anger coming in waves. He blamed himself, blamed it all on one arrow - a failure that stung all the more thanks to its rarity. Weylyn did not miss. <br/><br/>"Perhaps Verana Snowblade was meant to live a full life. Maybe she would have helped lead her people to victory, securing a future for Soluunar that many dared not hope for in its darkest hours."<br/><br/>Rolyn could not touch Weylyn when they spoke like this, but he stood right next to him, and he knew the other could feel his presence.<br/><br/>"And perhaps she may have been meant to live on, only to see defeat and the death of those she loved. Even the wisest cannot see what may have been, Weylyn. But she died fighting alone against overwhelming odds -  she died a hero, and not an archer shall raise their bow on Soluunar without knowing the name Verana Snowblade."<br/><br/>He began fading, as the concentration that bound him to the tent was weakened as Rolyn felt the call to action within the Upper Regions. "Don't think of the arrow that missed, Weylyn. Think of those that may still be saved, as you still draw breath. And remember the fallen, lest you join them."</span></span><br/><br/>For a long moment, he stood there, eyes on his bow still as the trees of the forest he called home. Then with measured actions, smooth from years of practice he drew his knife and carved into his bow a single word.<br/><br/>Verana.<br/><br/>Every arrow that he notched from this night forth would pass across her name and carry with it her hopes, dreams, and her vengeance. With her he would reclaim the land and drive back the dark.<br/><br/>He would never miss again.<br/><br/>“What now? You must feel that in the air? This…victory is hollow for more than one reason,” he cast his gaze to the heavens. “These mortals are in for a storm…aren’t they?”