Weaving - The Hour of Shadows

Silk sat still, crouched against the pale stones of the windswept grove. Everything always looked wrong to her during The Hour of Shadows. They called it an hour, but it was closer to 40 minutes for most of the year. She supposed that made sense. The Two-Thirds of One Hour of Shadows didn’t have the same ring to it. It was a discomforting sliver of the night when The Moons were at their furthest point from one another. Sorrow in the north, Majesty in the West, and Luna in the East. The effect was a dull dream-like glow, and a trio of uneven shadows cast out from every object.

Silk hated it. Made her anxious. Probably because it was the time when things went always wrong during stories told in taverns. Despite her dislike for it, she often found herself out during the uncanny hour. That was the life of a thief.

“Anxious thieves make the best thieves!” Palce always said, but Palce was always saying things. In fact, his constant blabber was why she was out this evening. The burglary of a single relic in exchange for Palce’s release. Easier said than done, especially since it was being transported by a VanVeld caravan.

She didn’t know why people cared so much about relics from The Grand Nothing. Bits of distorted, illegible text, carved in old stone. 

Why would anyone want to know what happened to the old world? Obviously, their actions got them into a great deal of trouble. So much trouble the gods scratched away every bit of text they wrote… Then again… those relics were worth a lot. Maybe she would let Palce get himself out of his mess this time.

Silk thought as she began to pull a firebomb from her belt. The squeaky wheels of the VanVeld caravan were coming down the road. It was time to cast a few more shadows.