Eberus, a tall, lithe warrior dressed in fur and dusted by the plains of Maraballa, knelt and looked far beyond the purple hills of Sysophola.
His heart was heavier than the cargo of a sea barge drifting on the Aratteus after a month hunting and trawling for pescuthus.
He viewed the herd of Atruscean antelope that carried rich, dark meat, little fat and fetched good bounty at the Gerder market each 1st day.
Natreana had not spoken to him for 6 days now and this after they had shared that special moment while he visited, carrying forest truffle.
He nursed the knife her jagged eye lodged in his open heart, the wound where only torn emotion and passion lie side by side.
When they were joined by thought and imagination he knew her heart raced with his and by now he were chasing the insolent deer.
Who grazed on autumn coloured grasses, so trimmed, so languid, as Eberus who contemplated turning his dagger inward to end his mire.
Why is love the hardest, the slowest and the painful night while as well it causeth the step to quicken, the countenance to lighten and smile?
For these thoughts the deer were now tripping, gambling, running and breathing free as the night prussian and dark fell upon them.