In Which Searle Confronts Another Ghost

March 17, 1180

Viridis was still asleep, or at least she had been when Searle had dressed. He'd yet to see any signs of his children or Neilor this morning either. He supposed he envied them that. If he'd managed a wink of sleep all night, he might have still been in bed, nestled beneath a soft blanket, arms around his wife's warm body.

But here he was, out on the cold beach as the sea claimed any raindrop that dared approach, a certain calm-before-the-storm quiet lurking about in spite of the tide and the rain and the playful yapping of the dogs.

It wasn't that he disliked seeing his children--far from it. If he had, why would he have bothered speaking to Landus at the tournament? Why would he have sought out Tivalia at his mother's funeral? But perhaps he had grown too used to not getting what he wanted. It was how he'd been raised, he supposed; he'd never wanted for any material good, of course, but in terms of deeper, more desperate desires he'd been granted precious few. He supposed there had come a point when he'd started denying himself these things out of habit.

Now that two of his children had actually sought him out--at least one of them on her own accord--he did not know what to do with that.

Prince barked, seemingly at nothing, but that happened from time to time; he was growing more than a little senile in his old age. It wasn't until Luna dashed around Searle's back and tugged at his coat that he sensed the calm had cleared and the storm had come at last.

"What is it, girl?" he muttered as he let the rabbit-eared dog turn him about. Prince growled in the direction of the house; Searle took that for a clue and looked, watching as two figures emerged from along the side.

Female, both of them--he could tell as much from their builds, even if the air was still cold enough to require the added warmth of a bulky cloak--and not of any insignificant standing if the vibrancy of their garb and the crispinettes on their heads had anything to say about it. The one in back wore blue, her bound hair a dull orange-red like Searle's own. The green-clad woman in front also had red hair, but it was richer, darker, not unlike...

...shit.

So much for thinking he'd had enough ghosts to confront in a twenty-four hour period.

"Hello, Searle."

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