Poignant: A New Life Festival Drabble
He was hungry. Starving, even. However, such a small degree of personal sacrifice was nothing to one who had faithfully stood watch at his post for millennia. A few days without food was a small price to pay, in order to ensure that his gift would be ready on time. The New Life Festival... A time of joy, and a time of giving. Such simple sentiments truly warmed the old guardian's heart, granting a temporary reprieve from the bitter frost of penance and lament that laced it. It was thus that Gelebor had spent the past few months gathering precious herbs and spices, both the local area and from those lost travellers whom stumbled across his Wayshrine. A snared Vale Deer, caught as the rising sun heralded the dawn of Wayrest's Saturalia, completed the delectable ensemble. Food was hard to come by, especially among the gelid climes of the Forgotten Vale, and thus, the old guardian savoured not a single bite of the venison intended as a gift for his defiled sibling, despite the time between Saturalia and the New Life Festival. A day's slow cooking ensured that the meat was deliciously tender, the aromatic twist of the donated herbs and spices nigh on irresistible to those lucky enough to savour it. The pelt of the fallen deer was not wasted either, as the aging Snow Elf carefully fashioned the fur into a pair of long-sleeved gloves. He knew well that frost mercilessly nipped at exposed fingers, even when concealed under lined gauntlets; as such, it was his dearest hope that, perhaps, this gift would finally be the one to be gratefully received by his estranged brother. The pot of stew, carefully wrapped in the remainder of the insulating fur, was left at the entrance of the Inner Sanctum upon the eve of the New Life Festival. The meticulously crafted gloves were placed atop the piping hot vessel, wrapped in a delicate bow skillfully fashioned from woven Frostbite Spider silk. A troubled sigh escaped the ancient guardian as he straightened his posture, wondering if all his effort would, once more, be in vain. Try as Gelebor might, Vyrthur had not once accepted any of his New Life gifts for as long as he could remember, and such blatant rejection from the brother he revered grieved him. He could only hope that when he returned the next day, that he might, at last, be greeted by the joyous sight of the Arch-Curate's icy countenance thawing amongst the gentle warmth of a long forgotten smile. Unfortunately, as the sun of the First of Morning Star rose upon the fallen sanctuary, the Knight-Paladin's heart sank as he realised the lovingly made stew had frozen solid in the very same place he left it. Another year, another rejection.