What seemed an eternity had come almost too quickly after the setting of the last sun. The mask maker had since buried themselves in work to distract from the nagging well of fears that threatened to spill.
Dante could so easily lose track of time working as diligently as they did, but in this instance, it seemed as though thoughts were inescapable. Nights spent tossing and turning, days spent in a fog of worry and racing thoughts - until now. The sun rose, the grey of Nore coming into a lightened view, the bustling of her people - and a silent dread. When Dante rose from bed that morning a pit lay like lead in their gut. They sat in bed for some time, Dorian coming in to wake them and only finding the mask maker already up.
The boy had asked in quiet concern if Dante was feeling well, to which they said they were, shooing him off to the shop below. It had already been discussed that Dorian was minding the shop today, talk of it being about a business venture was said. Though in a sense, this venture was for business, just of a personal sort.
It took them a long while to groom and dress, not even focused on the showmanship of all they did to keep perfect appearances - no, Dante’s mind was concocting every worst case scenario. Until finally there were no more sashes to tie or hairs to brush, it was time.
Before venturing out into the crisp morning air, they bid farewell to their charge, and began the trek toward the witch’s keep. Passing by all things familiar it faded into a dull hum of colors and sounds, heart beating loudly in their own ears. Dante counted each step they took, further and further still, as the city faded and all was a sea of white.
There was little to indicate if they were going the right way and Dante wished they’d actually thought this through. A horse would have been grand, a cart, anything! But instead they’d walked headlong into a place where fate and destiny abandoned hope.
The sunrise saw Cynwrig’s back, his disheveled mane of blond hair draping carelessly over his shoulders. He too had not slept that night, though it was not anxiousness that had kept him awake. No, it was his work that kept him preoccupied, pale eyes keeping a close watch as a potion sat a-brewing.
He’d been doing much more spell work of late, he noticed, a thing which he could not complain about. It was his passion to brew potions, to fine tune his skills, and he was glad to have the opportunity to keep up his practice. But with every spell he brewed, a sense of doubt tickled at the back of his mind. What if he should fail this time? What if he further proved himself to be lesser than his sister? There was a chill within his chest, something akin to fear, and it took several moments for Cynwrig to will it away. But he silence those cruel thoughts with determination, with focus, as he continued to toil away.
He would prove to her, to everyone, that he was not to be underestimated.
So preoccupied was he that he nearly forgot the visitor he was meant to accept. Dante, the beloved mask maker, was meant to find his Sanctuary this day. But when the witch gazed out the window, the snow practically blinding to his vision, he knew locating his residence would be difficult even for Maeve. Ah, what an inconvenience it was, to have to guide weary travelers to his doorstep. But despite his annoyance, the witch rose to his feet, a few murmured words conjuring several globes of light.
They glowed red like rubies in his palm, seeming to dance with an anxious excitement. Whispering low unto them, he opened his fingers to let them fly. They would guide the mask maker to his doorstep, and soon his work could continue.