As it stood, Conroy ended up in the weirdest places for next to no reason. Taking advantage of free transports or opportunities, he’d be traipsing across Canelux, taking in the sights, as well as any possible magical practice and knowledge he could get his hands on. Difference this time was, he came here on purpose.

  After a bit of an investigation around the place, picking up tips on how to safely get around the Highlands and avoid meeting an early death because of a Giant he’d angered or just being caught up in a witch’s coven on accident, he’d come to a number of conclusions on how to get to where he needed to be in a safe and timely manner.

  He was glad to have come across a travelling cleric as he ventured through this part of the world, as he was given one tidbit of information that set his mind positively whirring. Apparently, there was a place of worship within a mountainous area of the Highlands, an old, and holy shrine. Though he didn’t get much more information than that, aside from it being abandoned of course, this did tell him one thing. There was something that could have been of value to him up there.

  Shrines were always used as places of religious worship, people would leave hopes, prayers, and offerings to the gods they trusted and believed in. He wasn’t told what god this shrine was dedicated to, let alone if it was dedicated to one to begin with, but what he did know was that it had been left abandoned for five years now. Whoever once prayed there didn’t pray anymore, that meant that those offerings they’d left were going to sit and rot forever until someone came and did something about it.

 It was a half-mooned night on the mountainside pass Conroy had found himself walking across, a chilly wind gently flowed around him, hints of mystery and whispers of those who had long since been echoing in the air around him. He’d been hiking along this pass for what felt like hours, but what had only been about half of one. He’d narrowly avoided the prying gazes of the Giants who wished to keep their stonebound homes away from outsiders, while the subtle cackling of witches and the howls of wolves resonated from the green expanse below.

Suffice to say, he was glad that he wasn’t down there.

 One last curve around the mountainside lead him to what he assumed was his destination. A small, charming shrine closed off from the world around it. A mighty stone outcropping ardently guarding the shrine’s rear, while one, albeit eroded, statue of a beautiful young woman adorned the top of the shrine. Gazing skywards as the moonlight gently kissed her cheeks.

 Conroy stared in awe for a moment, whatever deity people prayed to here must have been a benevolent one. But, now wasn’t the time for gawking. Now was the time to see what secrets this shrine held, what hopes people had left behind and what offerings had gone unused and unnoticed by those who had left this place behind.

 With a confident, yet careful stride, Conroy made his way towards the shrine. Quietly readjusting his glasses as he got a closer look as to what had been left here. The interior of the shrine was quite simplistic, as it were. Minimalistic carvings adorned the walls of the monument of worship as well as small, wooden carvings decorating small stone shelves higher up within. Though, one thing in particular caught his attention. The altar within the centre of the shrine.

 A stone tablet of sorts, candles long since expired placed haphazardly around it, with small pieces of understated jewellery amongst other things. However, what snagged his attention the most was a lightly decorated urn sitting atop the tablet. A holy symbol engraved in the front and the lid tightly sealed on.

 Conroy felt as though this wasn’t something to be touched. But, he remembered why he came here. Whoever once prayed here, they didn’t come here anymore. This now abandoned shrine belonged to the Highlands. The contents of which, as far as he was concerned, were for the taking. Better to put them to use than leave them to deteriorate, after all. He reached forwards, his fingers glancing against the urn as all of a sudden, it tumbled backwards and off of the tablet. He hadn’t realised how close it had been to the back of this altar, and had pushed it off by accident. A loud, resounding smash echoed throughout the shrine and the outcropping it was nestled in. Conroy frankly looked a bit miffed by this.

“Whoops.”

She reaches her hands out. Her white fingers wriggle like snakes as they inch further and further. Her hands are white, her fingers are white - so white that they don’t give off the feeling of life - and the neck her hands go around is even more white. Her fingers wrap around the neck that seems to have even lost the color white, that doesn’t give off a presence. Her fingernails dig slightly into the skin, drawing thin red lines. Like lipstick, she bemusedly realizes. The red lines follow her fingers, tracing them around the length of the neck. She squeezes harder than before, the feeling of flesh, bones, skin, nerves, throat, veins, and life. She feels the blood rushing under her fingers.

But no one is here.

She’s not being looked at by anyone.

Nothing is here.

She’s not even looking at anything.

Nothing is in the dark world. Only the whiteness of her hands and neck float in the darkness like ghosts, and she can’t see anything else. She doesn’t know if she’s standing, if she’s sitting, what time it is right now, or even where this is. The time and place are being erased in the darkness. Even if she were to look to the sky, she couldn’t see the stars, there is no moon, and she wouldn’t even know if that place where there is only darkness is the sky.

The neck.

Her hands.

The white neck that is being strangled and the white neck that she is strangling are all there is in the world. She didn’t even know if her eyes were there, but the feeling of putting strength forward comes to her clearly. The feeling of putting strength into her fingers. The feeling of putting strength into her fingers and choking someone. The feeling of her fingers sinking into flesh, and the feeling of pressing veins down.

The feeling of death.

The feeling of choking someone and - the feeling of being choked by someone.

The feeling of life.

Light goes on like an explosion. A light more red than red, more blue than blue shines. The feeling of the world breaking. The sky splits and the light that was hidden is released all at once. Only light fills the world with nothing in it. In the light, she saw it clearly.

The sight of Monoch choking herself.

And then - she snapped out of the dream.

—

Trapped within the confines of her own mind, Monoch has had a very, very long time to reflect. And she had only come to terms with one thing in thirteen years:

Her mind is boring. At first it was terrifying and infinite, extending in all directions, a sucking black void, holy magic pulling her against her will towards infinity. A constant struggle that she had learned to endure.

And then there was the great silence. Monoch thought that she had known silence in her old life, serving as a night maid in a great manor, with no company other than its creaks and groans. But it was nothing compared to the overwhelming quiet of her own thoughts that filled up her up and seemed to threaten to crush her.

But at a certain point it became rather dull. When trapped inside a hollow urn, there actually isn't much to see. Whether she opens or closes her eyes, all she sees is: Nothing, nothing, nothing, oh look, there's the woman who killed her. And there, to the left of her, is her husband and her six children, all of them laughing.

So that's nice.

Oh, and the constant pull of the holy beings trying to get her to join them on the other side. She had accumulated so much guilt and anger in her thirteen years of banishment that when the hand of salvation reached for her, she refused it, over and over. Over time the loneliness took over from the relief of solitude and she came to the opinion that it was the gods who had refused her, her own choice quite forgotten.

And so, because it is boring, she often finds herself drifting and allowing her mind to take it wherever it does. There's nothing much else to do, anyway. And she wants to avoid looking at those laughing faces, because they remind her too much of her failures. She had learned to control her temper, but sometimes, it was very hard not to scream out in frustration.

Not that anyone could hear her.

Until…

Until…

There was the sound of porcelain shattering. The sound of the urn cracked into the air as loud as thunder but without the raw power of a storm. Monoch felt tinny and small, in comparison to the noise, her world shaken and her reality checked.

It started with a slight shimmer, as if the air was being warped and twisted.

Levitating a foot off the ancient stone tile, the pearly-white translucent object shimmered with a haze. Slowly it came into focus, like an object observed through a telescope. but this phantom was close; very close. At first, its whisper was like the soft susurration of the wind in the trees, but as the ghost became more clear, more sharply focused, the whisper became an eerie rasping voice, moaning, groaning.

“So long… So long…”

The spirit's voice was like iron nails dragged over rock. It rose and fell, never once making the words audible. Then the eyes that had been as white as a naked canvas rolled to gray pupils, and her mouth stretched wide in a terrible scream!

…Or, rather, it was a yawn.

She explored the walls of the shrine with her eyes, taking note of their details and patterns. It seems that it had come to be a considerably less holy since she had last visited.

She turned over her shoulder… And her eyes fell. They met with a young man’s, one who would have been taller than her if not for her current position high above the ground. She blinked.

Had she been… rescued? Her mind was racing, sluggishly processing the information she’s been presented after over a decade’s worth of stagnation. Her eyes narrowed, slowly focusing on the man before her. Her lips parted, words sneaking out from between them.

“Who…?”

And she spoke no further.

The exact moment the air around the now shattered jar began to warp, Conroy was filled with a sudden, and very real sense of dread. He knew instantly that he’d freed something when the urn had shattered, and in that moment he was horrifically afraid.

His mind was flooded with imagery of the life he’d abandoned. That same urge to turn tail and escape filling his very being. The soldiers who valiantly fought for the safety and pride that his home entailed, the fiery destruction the battlefield was wrought with, the instinct that flooded his very soul that had just told him to run.
But, for some reason, he didn’t budge. Not one inch. He’d freed this spectre from their shackles, he’d done this to himself. Whatever was to happen to him because of this error he’d made, and he accepted this fact fully. For whatever reason, the spirit that had manifested didn’t seem angry, vengeful, malevolent, nothing that a spirit might be after having been held captive in an urn for so many years. Above all else, they just looked confused.

Conroy gazed at her curiously, the pale figure analysed the shrine that surrounded them, seeming to soak in every detail. The words she muttered sounded so ominous, yet he didn’t see them as malicious. From what he could perceive, they looked lonely and sad. Though this very easily could have just been a trick of some kind. Ghosts and spirits and the like were known for being tricky or otherwise crafty, after all.
Any doubt Conroy had in his mind all but vanished as she presented to him a simple query. She wanted to know who he was, but why? Was she trying to learn his identity so she could possess his body? Or was she just curious of the identity of her saviour? He chose to believe the latter. This spirit didn’t seem malevolent or evil, at the least.
It took him a moment to snap out of the train of thought he was stuck in, his gaze affirmed on the spiritual figure that floated before him. Whoever this spirit once was, whatever fate had befallen them, he was sure that they wouldn’t do anything to harm him. Well, he hoped this sureness in himself would pay off. He took a step towards the ghost, his face remaining neutral.
“I’m Conroy. Conroy Rannalon.” He spoke, not even so much as a tinge of fear punctuating his words, rather a calm, level-headed confidence.
It was now that he began to grow curious. Just what was this spirit? Who were they before they died? He wanted to ask her more than anything, but he then realised that it would be very rude to do so. He’d find this out later, if they turned out to be peaceful.
“How about yourself, do you have a name?” He asked, beginning to steadily pace around the shrine, glancing over every inch of it to try and garner any details for himself, not to mention to see whether or not there really was anything of value in here.

Conroy eventually came to the urn he’d smashed, kneeling beside it and carefully looking over the fragments that now covered the floor behind the stone tablet. With a couple of careful glances and some knowledge from his past, the most he could garner from this was that it was there to keep something in. …Though, in fairness, he did already know this. After all, there was a spirit just freed from this.
After rooting around a moment more, he sighed quietly, a slight hint of disappointment punctuating said sigh. He stood up, brushing the dirt and dust off of his robe that had accumulated on the way up here. He’d generally neglected to do so for obvious reasons, but having old sacred urn dust on his knees didn’t seem to be a good idea. His gaze returned to the spectre.
“You know, you must have been trapped in there for quite some time.” He spoke as he slowly stepped around the tablet, returning to his prior position in front of it. A smile came to his face as well. “Well, however long you had been in there, it’s fine now. You’re free.”
For some unknown reason, he’d decided to show kindness to them. Well, in saying that, he knew full well why. If he’d been shoved into an urn for ages, he’d probably be as confused and sad as the spectre that floated before him looked. Even a modicum of kindness can lighten the mood of someone in such a sorry state.

The same, chilled breeze from before quietly flowed throughout the shrine. Conroy had never thought for a moment that this shrine would have a spirit sealed within it. Even if he didn’t come away with anything of value, he’d come away knowing he once stood face to face with a spiritual entity and came out alive.

Monoch moved forward without taking a single step. Her movement could be described as a leaf caught in a breeze. It was a lazy, winding path that she took as she approached her savior, the colors at her edges blending into gray and white. She was closer to Conroy than she had been moments before, her strange meandering movements drawing the two together in response to his questions.

She was so close that Conroy could feel how cold death was. She did not speak to answer his questions, only staring silently into his eyes. Her eyes, empty like glass orbs, did not glitter with life the way a woman’s eyes should. Her eyes did not reflect the world as eyes should, and, after another moment of staring, Conroy discovered that they did not blink, either.

She was so cold. So cold that his breath came out in frothy puffs in the air, and the spirit’s presence caused the moisture in the air to form a crackling layer of ice on every surface in the shrine as she flexed her spiritual power.

She was so close to Conroy. She couldn’t possibly have been any closer.

Until she was.

The spirit surged forward, a sudden focus in her expression, her brows furrowed together. She entered him.

As death passed through him, Conroy's body heat didn't so much as drain away or leech out slowly; it abandoned him with callous speed to leave him brittle and shivering.
Through the cold, that bitter frigidity of a damaged spirit passing over his own, there was a name.

Monoch.

It was less than a name - through their briefly intimate bond, Conroy could determine that. It wasn't the spirit's given name, but it was what she called herself. There was depth to the name, however - it was something she clung to, and it was a descriptor.

Conroy's mind was filled with imagery of a life that was not his own - a brief struggle, a night of unrequited passion. A silhouette in a doorway, a woman in her bed, the flash of a silver blade. There was no struggle when she was murdered - the woman had spent an entire lifetime struggling, and could not spend her last moments fighting. There was blood, oh, there was so much blood, and then… there was silence. An indeterminable period of silence. Just as Conroy could have possibly made sense of the images that the spirit forced into his mind, the connection was unexpectedly severed.

Monoch exited through the ex-noble's back, and for a moment, all was silent. The spirit had disappeared, but her influence was still apparent through subtle clues. The lowered temperature, the peeling wallpaper, the hollow whisper in the air speaking only briefly:

"Conroy Rannalon…?"

The spirit congealed into form in front of Conroy again, a rasping laugh passing through her teeth as she said his name. She backed away from him, and as she did, warmth returned to his body. It was as if she had never been there, and if he didn’t see her floating just a meter away, it would be easy to dismiss the brief sensation as a cold spell were it not for the murderous imagery still fresh in his mind.

The spirit simply was, wordlessly drilling him. She had shared her name as was requested of her, but had gone further. She had shared her name, and she had shared her story. She was waiting for him to do the same.

There was a breeze that passed through the shrine, the very same one that had blown thirteen years before. The breeze went cold, and it circled the remnants of the urn, taking them in a vortex. Using the wind as her medium, Monoch dashed the fragments and shards into a powder, shredding the urn to pieces so that it could never be used against her again.

Never before could Conroy ever assume that there would be such a thing as a ‘worst experience possible’. Well, after having had his body made completely heatless and having had his head flooded with thoughts and memories that weren’t his own, this could very easily make it to the top of his list of ‘worst things ever’.

Though, that isn’t to say this didn’t teach him anything. He was aware that this was the ghost’s doing, after all she’d just passed into his body and exited it right after. She had a name as well: Monoch. He didn’t really think it sounded like a name, but people prefer to be called different things on account of certain events in their lives. At least now he had a better idea of how this spirit came to be, his friendly affirmations were brushed away, seeing as Monoch seemed to want to get straight down to business.Or not, he couldn’t tell if she could communicate normally at all.

She spoke his name as well, though, speaking of speaking, he found himself just about unable to. A shocking experience such as what he’d just been through might have been just enough to send some people mad, but, he still stood strong. It took him a moment, but Monoch’s silence clearly indicated to him that she wanted to hear what he had to say. She’d shared so much with that cycle of frightening memories. So, it was only fair that he shared the very same with her.

Though, as with before, he hesitated. Just thinking about it sickened him, his home falling apart over a feud that could have been resolved with a simple, friendly conversation. There wasn’t an opportunity to be sentimental, though. Fair’s fair, and he really didn’t think Monoch would care about any sort of excuses or nonsense he had to say.

“That’s– that’s such a horrific way to die, Monoch.” He said, stammering slightly. Though, he took a deep breath, in and out. Composing himself as he prepared to continue speaking.

“I’ve suffered quite a lot of loss myself, Monoch.” His voice carried hints of adamance as he spoke. “Though, I can’t say there’s anything that can compare to losing your life, I lost next to everything else.” He stopped once more. Forcefully composing himself yet again. Dammit Conroy, pull it together.

“The city I came from was a place centric on the practice of magic, and to cut a long story short, another city a decent distance away was as well. Except this city didn’t like us, and we didn’t like them.” He began to quietly pace around as he continued to speak. “It was such a stupid conflict when I think back to it… We were traditional, while they were more modern. We could have just lived the ways we wanted to, apart from one another. But, no. It just had to spark a war.”

Conroy visibly shuddered a bit upon mentioning the word ‘war’, the anguish from remembering these events was almost visible in his eyes.

“I was ready to fight this war as well, by the way. It took me long enough to realise just how dumb it all was, and how prepared I really was to give it all up.” He turned towards Monoch, his eyes locking with hers. “We were practically destined to lose that battle. The first five minutes passed and already everything was falling apart. It was the definition of a fight or flight situation.”Seemingly to stall continuing this, he took a moment to readjust his glasses.

“I picked the flight option, as you can assume. Otherwise I wouldn’t be standing here today talking to you.” He stopped briefly to look back at where the urn had been broken, he could’ve sworn he saw it being whipped away by the wind. Turns out it had been, huh. “I don’t know what happened to my family and friends after that, let alone the people of my city. For all I know they’re either dead and buried, or being used as slaves and portable magic sources.” His tone steadily moved away from the anxiety he’d worn before, moreso showing a display of acceptance, above all else.

“I put that all behind me, everything I knew, everything I was. Just tossed it all aside, all so I wouldn’t have to remember anything from then.” He gently rubbed the side of his head as he said this, continuing to speak immediately after. “It’s a simple life I lead nowadays, I just want to improve my magic, make use of the potential I was born with to make sure that I can protect myself and others if something like that crops up again.” He stopped suddenly as he finished speaking, staring at the ground a moment in deep thought.

“I’m fairly sure that’s all of it actually… I don’t think I missed anything.” Just like that his tone had shifted to something of a casual variety. Almost as though everything before was a performance, even though it wasn’t. …Though, he then realised he shared just about everything about his past with a ghost he’d freed on complete accident. Well, at least it wasn’t to a witch from down in the woodlands who wanted to boil him into a stew. 

He was then left wondering what Monoch was going to be doing next however, ghosts usually had some kind of purpose left to fulfil if they were still hanging around, but if one was sealed away in a jar for however long she’d been sealed away, did that really matter? He assumed they still had some earthly duty to fulfil, but he had to be sure.

“Well, what will you do now, Monoch?” He asked simply. His eyes affixed on the ghostly apparition hovering before him. …While still being unable to get over the fact that he shared his entire backstory with a literal ghost. Ah well, what’s done is done.

The ghost was frozen in place, and only the movement of her black hair gave away that she was not some brilliant Halloween decoration. She stared with wide eyes as Conroy spoke, her face passive and slack.

When Conroy's tale concluded, the spirit's hand twirled slowly. As her wrist came forward, a flash of silver appeared in her palm. A thin blade was clasped in her corpse-like grip, as if it had always been there. The blade was slick with blood, ominously glimmering in the pale moonlight.

Monoch held the knife, twisting it in the moonlight as if it could slice the creamy light itself, her callous expression exaggerated by the dark shadows around her eyes. Though blood traced the knife's edge, it was most perfectly untouched by rust or corrosion. The blade was strong and sharp - more than enough.

It was seven inches of cold steel, while it's handle was ivory, reminding the woman who had been slain with it that the knife had been murderous even in its craftsmanship.

Monoch weighed the knife in her hand. It was no heavier than a kitchen blade, but would cut on first contact, even with minimum pressure. Its subtle serrations were like waves, but not randomly so like on the cheaper knives. They slid in smoothly and do maximum damage on the way out, like the barbs of a fishing hook. When she saw her reflection in the steel, her mind flicked to her killer. She could see that miserable woman bleeding already, and the corners of her mouth twitched upward. She could already see her in a growing pool of copper-tasting blood and her face split into a grin that arced in a sickly way, but it never made it to her almost sunken eyes.

Her eyes flicked up. It would be simple to kill Conroy as well. Effortlessly easy: just reach forward, faster than she had before, into his neck, and back out again.

But she couldn't. The thought occurred to her, to slay him the same way she had slain the trespassers, but she had no desire to do so. It wasn't an apathetic whim that stayed her hand, but something more profound than that.

Compassion wasn't something that could be learned. You either had it or you didn't, and I can't say it was an advantage either. Monoch envied those that didn't connect with the pain they saw every day - it was easier for them. She told herself that she wasn't going to be wrapped up in his story, but the further Conroy spoke, the less sure she was. In life, how could she have dealt with the sick and they dying everyday and still be her? In life, it was all she could do not to turn to drink. In life, she felt her skin growing a little thicker every day, her empathy shrinking to something one could more accurately describe as professional concern.

But in death, her compassionate nature only blossomed. It would be so easy to return to her old murderous nature and slaughter everything that crossed her, but there was no reason to. There would be nothing to gain, no satisfaction earned. Lashing out at the world earned her nothing.

She wanted to do more than just kill. She wanted Conroy to prosper, and to succeed where she had failed. She didn't want him to suffer the same fate that she did. She didn't want him to hurt any more than he already had. She wanted to do more than just kill - but that didn't mean she had forgotten her true goal. She knew what she was, and what she had to do. She would have her revenge. She would have her justice. She would have her blood.

She moved forward, fading into nothing. She disappeared from view, but Conroy could feel her presence frighteningly close. Her voice was hoarse, but slow, enunciated, and patient. Her voice came through like crinkling leaves. It was an odd, but not an entirely unpleasant sound.

"I will be patient with you. I will be kind to you. I will listen to you. I will never forsake you. I will protect you. I will be there for you."

A wind swirled around Conroy, and with it, came Monoch's motives. The feelings that drove her flooded into Conroy's mind in waves, washing him in a sentimental, oddly maternal sensation. This was not an invasion of Conroy’s mental space, as it was moments before. It was a gentle push against his spirit, one that he would have to have allowed to enter his thoughts. Conroy felt her desire to protect, her desire to save his life so that it would not resemble hers. Conroy would prosper. That was her promise.

Above all other things, he felt her desire for revenge. The need for revenge was like a rat gnawing at her soul, relentless, unceasing, it could only be stopped by the cold steel of a rat trap, a trap she would devise herself. Her need for revenge was like an abscess on the skin of the soul that could only be cured by the cruel sharp steel point of revenge. Festering like a septic wound, and the only effective antibiotic is cold hard revenge. Savage. Spiteful. A dish best served cold. Unforgiving. She would bear a grudge until she died or took revenge, whichever came first. Settling old scores. Brutal. Callous. Satisfying. Empty.

This is what Monoch was. This is what she wanted to save Conroy from.

Her presence broke away. Conroy’s mind was his and his alone once more. There was no immediate indication of the spirit’s presence, but there were subtle hints. The occasional cold breeze, as if someone walked past him. The way the hair on the back of his neck stood on their ends. Subtle shadows at the corners of his vision; all evidence of a vengeful spirit.

All evidence of his guardian angel.

Conroy would never have anticipated his thought earlier pertaining to leaving alive turning into this. He’d come to this shrine to dig up some arcane knowledge, maybe even snag an artefact left behind by those who came to worship, but never in his wildest dreams would he imagine the spirit he freed swearing to protect him.

The feeling that overcame his being as Monoch spoke those words into his head. Maternal, reassuring words that set his feelings in a spin. To put it simply, he was feeling too many things at once, a weird combination of confusion, comfort and slight fear. He just wasn’t sure about anything, as it stood. Though, there was one thing he did understand fully. Monoch’s motives, though only conveyed through pure unfiltered feelings, were revealed to him loud and clear.

Vengeance was a powerful force when applied in the right places. And with a vengeance as unhinged and as pure as this? He held no doubt that whoever had killed Monoch wouldn’t be around for any longer the moment they’d been found. But, for the moment, Monoch was accompanying him. A guardian spirit of sorts.

Admittedly, he was obscenely terrified when her knife suddenly manifested earlier on, he thought for a second that it really was all over then and there. One swift attack was all it would’ve took and he would’ve been dead. That would’ve been it, no more Conroy. His tale would’ve ended then and there with a knife stabbing right into his neck. But it didn’t, in fact, the opposite happened. This spirit had sworn herself as his guardian, and he was none the wiser.

Well, he did come out of this with a positive at the very least. Because now he not only came face to face with a sealed away spirit, this spirit understood his troubles, and wanted to defend him because of it. So, on top of making an intriguing discovery and a once in a lifetime experience, he now had a companion to accompany him on his journey. Though, with their purpose in mind, it wasn’t guaranteed that she’d be around forever. Monoch would stick around with him for a while, at least that’s what he thought. That’s what he hoped.

As her presence entered a much subtler, significantly more ethereal form, Conroy was taken aback, if not only for a moment. Glancing around as he fruitlessly tried to see where Monoch had gotten off to. Of course, he picked up on the subtler hints. The subtle chills passing over him every now and again, the shadows dancing dangerously close to the corners of his vision, and of course just the feeling that he was being watched. That someone was watching over him always.

He nodded quietly, a subtle chuckle escaping his throat. He understood what this all meant, and it was about time for him to continue onwards. He’d seen all there was to see here, it was about time he returned to the green expanse below. …Well, actually, he wasn’t so sure about that.

As it stood, he was high up the side of a large mountain, nestled in an outcropping dangerously close to the homes owned by the Giants of the mountain, as well as being precariously positioned right by a cliff face. Though there was still plenty of room to maneuver around, getting back down was going to be an issue.

That’s what he thought at the very least, it wasn’t until a moment had passed that he realised his surroundings had gotten quite bright. Brighter than they should have been, at least. It wasn’t like the inky blackness of the night time just before, but it was light enough to see. He turned towards the mountainous outcropping covering the rear of the shrine, only to see a familiar and happily welcomed light trickle over the top of it. The sun was rising. Wonderful, now getting to a safe location wasn’t going to be a complete nightmare.

“Lucky me, the sun’s rising. Whew… That’s some great timing.” He said, a sigh of relief following the already relieved tone of voice he wore proudly. Wait, could Monoch hear him like that? Oh, wait, of course she could. She was able to hear him just fine earlier, not to mention her presence could still be felt. He wondered whether or not she’d end up being more talkative in future, he wasn’t entirely sure.

Either way, he was done atop this mountainous place of worship. The shrine was a wondrous sight to behold under the moon, not to mention this place would be locked forever in his memory as a pivotal moment in his travels. Though, chances are he wouldn’t end up coming here again. He was already lucky enough getting here unscathed and finding the way with no hassle, going through it all again didn’t seem so fun. Not to him, at least.

 With that, he turned and began the trek back to somewhere civilised. Right back down the mountain pass he’d come up through, the sounds of a gentle morning breeze and birds gently chirping in the newly risen sunlight were a welcome contrast to the cacophony of fear-inducing nonsense from earlier on. The thought of being out there alone at night genuinely frightened him, but now he wasn’t really alone.

With Monoch by his side, he felt as though didn’t have to be as afraid of these things anymore. With his guardian angel watching over him, he could carry himself higher than before. 

He could already feel that this would only bring more interesting experiences to the journey he’d experienced thus far. The magical prowess he sought so dearly seemed closer than ever.