Iskra
I'm chasing starlight to find it's died away
Deimos or The fires around Snowcloak hissed as Iskra dropped a log into them. He'd been splitting some of the bigger pieces earlier this morning, and now, like a barn kid feeding carrots to all the eager ponies, he was drifting from brazier to pit and tossing in every manner of kindling and log he had hauled with him. At his side, Goose trotted along, nose to the ground as he assessed their route. Every so often, he'd lift a leg and drizzle his mark on the surrounding scenery.
As his bag lightened, Iskra found himself pausing at one fire pit that had several empty seats around it. His muscles ached with even the smallest movements, and his clothing was littered with fragmented wood. He supposed he could stop and rest, just for a little while. Part of him was loathe to do so, because it made getting back up that much harder. A smaller, quieter, but insistent part of him also told him he did not deserve rest. What had he done recently that was so tiring? Drank, and slept, and foraged for flowers.
"Just for a little," he told to protesting, cruel voice as he shuffled to the end of a bench and sat with a groan.
