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[color=a167e9]Sᴏᴠᴇʀᴇɪɢɴᴛʏ ᴏғ Dʀʏᴀᴅᴀʟɪs, Aʀʀɪᴠᴀʟ Bᴇғᴏʀᴇ [i]Tʜᴇ Eᴏʟᴅʏssᴇᴜs'[/i] Dᴇᴘᴀʀᴛᴜʀᴇ
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The old, crickety coach tussled Uriel’s small and thin body as it was pulled along the rocky soil.  His feet dipped together with the movements; leather boots pressed in unison of nearly inaudible sound at these prospects; and his shoulders cautiously adjusted themselves against the cushioned seats of the coach.  The loudness of the horses' steps suggested locations, and Uriel's naivety knew only a handful of these sounds.  For now, he was more concerned with what he was holding in front of him, even if his decision to make such a journey was beginning to show itself beyond the scenery.

Some passenger before Uriel had made the curtain of the coach to be undrawn a little, with the forest sunlight pressing a spying eye through the modestly teasing sill.  His beams were warm on Uriel’s lap, still shadowed by the curves of the boy’s drooped arms and the strong, curved folds of the book he was reading so adamantly. A shadow of restless worry was carved under his studious concentration, perched with a small frown that seemed too timid to remove itself, and nestled in an ascetic mode of thought, the boy’s head was pressed downwards with an inclined neck.  His deep amethyst eyes motioned over the words, sometimes reviewing them twice or more, even the sentences in search for hidden knowledge he had surpassed in his boyish haste and lack of discipline. 

A sudden jolt of wheels heaving exhaustively due to old age and thick forestry muscled loose the light curtain, drawing over the window and shielding the light from intrusion. The darkness of the blind was sedated by two dim ceiling lights, gently making swings and trembles with the rocking of the equestrian powered vehicle. In response to the the curtain making more use of itself, Uriel’s head absentmindedly decided to lift itself from some foreign cloudy haze of self-unawareness. His mouth moved, and he looked about the car. There was a juvenile passé in him that he wore so well like it might have been the only noteworthy quality about him. During those several seconds, his book was lowered and shut, and the pages pressed over his thumb as a mark.

For several more seconds, the boy seemed to be returning to his senses as the whimsical mist of his mood lifted and dissipated. His thumb respectfully allowed the book to sleep by removing itself from between it's pages, and along with his hand, his thumb was brought upwards to idly feel over the fabric of his shirt, which covered his hidden pendant.  The edges of the pendant hinted into his skin due to the weight of his touch, and with his eyes closing, Uriel drew his attention to the pendant, repeating a small prayer in his mind and sharpening the edges of his core. 

For secrecy, only, and the will to not tempt any other person’s notice, his back relaxed into the chair despite his body awakening from its literary slumber. He was exhausted despite such an educated rest. So childish he felt in his weariness, weak from such a small read and a wagon trip.  How did his parents travel like so by wagon, across the kingdoms for so many ages? Their strength was something he was longing to hold as his own. It had been stolen from him. They had many more ages to travel, and yet… Each net he cast in order to capture such lost talent, he seemed to only bring about tangles of webs and knots. And, although his fingers were hardened from Artemis’ training against the Earth -- so calloused he could not anymore feel the smooth richness of the pages of books against his fingertips (such a childish desire he held close to only himself, much like a whispered confession), these knots were often not something he knew how to untie. 

He was determined, though. His ether was a strength burning brightly inside of him, and he knew for one that his pendant strengthened this power.  If his pendant was the key to finding his parents’ strength, he had much more studying to overcome.  He would not let his parents’ death be in vain, nor would he allow himself to disown the memories of the ones who had taught him magic of which he held so close to him during his youth. 

His eyes slowly opened, but his hand remained intrigued with whatever was beneath his shirt. Perhaps, an itch or a chest pain. Alaric Fasarus, yes, he was a small pain, like a sharp thread that needed to be cut as to allow the seams of Iquenos to unravel.  Again, Uriel rested his eyelids. However, his hand rested as well, finding a place on the antique cover of the book lying in his lap.  He needed all the energy he could muster. Casting spells was not always as easy as simply making some foreign noise in a distant language. How he longed for it to be, though.[/color]