Miryan stopped under one of the archers on the western high-passageway. The wind has softened by the floor was still soaked with the water and the rain continued to pour over the gardens. She smiled. Rain on this magnitude seldom fell over Mynx and not a week ago the groundskeeper and those under their guard were working hard to water the flowerbeds. But a week ago no one in sound mind would expect rain clouds to rise this far as Manx crossed the warm equatorial winds. Yet, here it was, rain, pouring relentless, seeming endless, over the fields.
The forested hills barely visible beyond the low wall, each rising up in the distant dimmer than the one before, until all was white. Had the rain drops stopped for just a second, the scene Miryan watched would be no different than a painting.
Resting her spear on the wall she took two steps into the open balcony, not quite getting under the rain, just enough so she could extend her hand and catch the falling water on her palm. It was colder than she expected, and a shiver run her spine when the first drop hit her skin.
‘I envy you my friend,’ she brought her hand back, closing around a crystal necklace that had somewhat escaped from under her hard leather shirt, closing her eyes and trying to see him in the foreign lands he spoke off, imagining him exploring rain soaked hills from the lands bellow, finding rest under the cover of trees.
‘Maybe one day I too will see this wild and fantastic world of yours,’ Miryan let got off the necklace, picking back her spear and walking returning to her round, ‘for now, I have my own world to care fore.’
Her boots fell heavy on the stone floor, splashing water with each steps as she walked away from the faint day light into the darkness of the inner halls. That too, if Myrian had stopped on her tracks for just a brief moment, could be mistaken for a painting.