The world is still this evening. Quiet, as if holding its breath. There's an uncertainty in the northern winds that stirred Rhadamanthus from his duties amidst the kingdom, and drew him out into the bitter wilds. A blizzard had passed recently; in its wake, the forest is blanketed with thick, compact snow.

In thick plumes, his breath escaped him as he cut through the snowfall, his figure stark against pristine powder. There's a scent on the nipping winds, one he cannot place — and there's an unfamiliar feeling welling inside his chest. Is it apprehension?

Something is calling to him. A silent, nagging pull that guides him through the desolate range. The snow is endless, the forest is silent. With each step, that feeling intensifies.

And then, someone is calling out to him. At first it's a faint call that hardly cuts through the roar of the winds. His ears cup and swivel, his brows furrowed as he trudged further and further. That voice becomes louder, softer, urgent.

When he finds it, he finds her. A woman with a beauty unmatched, looking as if she'd been born from the blizzard itself. Plush, gentle, and there's something so awfully familiar that again, he cannot place. But it doesn't matter in the moment as Rhadamanthus approached her, chin tilted skyward to shield his eyes from the whip of winds.

She is lost. He feels it's his duty to guide her.

Hello, He chuffed, calm and deep. Is everything alright?

The woman born of snow felt the same tether, though it did little to soothe the insatiable curiosity. He offered her a small, calm smile in return, though his confusion is scrawled across his weathered face. I'm inclined to believe you, miss. The winds brought me to you.

It's as if the universe wished for me to find you again, he wished to say, but he didn't want her to find him mad!

It's unlike him to leer, but he cannot help himself; her beauty and her gentle voice stirs a reminiscing feeling. A yearning, perhaps, from an old life.

Had he known her as a man? Had she been a village woman he'd charmed during his travels, or perhaps he'd seen her fleeting face in the great halls of Ararnir?

Either way, their meeting feels...destined. Right in a way he couldn't possibly explain. With a slow step forward, his head drops; she's flighty, understandably, and the last thing he wished to do is frighten a woman that he was meant to find.

It's the strangest thing, and I cannot possibly remember where we've met. Or what life, even, where I'd known you. He explained. He takes a seat now, just in reach, but far enough for her comfort, of which he's mindful of.

Her laughter is a pretty thing, and with it, there's another pulse in his heart. Another tug at their tether. His smile grows, and he too comes to chuckle alongside her. It's quite alright. It's an odd thing to be re-born into a world so different than your own. My name is Rhadamamthus. But perhaps you might've once known me as Deimos?

Sir Knight. Such a colored title, and one he had no right to keep. Years ago he'd gone by many a title— commander, lord, king. Had she known, and is that why she'd bestowed it upon him? Either way, he found himself smiling once again. I am no knight, miss, just a humble diplomat. And perhaps a mad man.

All we can do is hope this mystery unravels in time, aye? And do forgive me, but I haven't caught your name, miss. And he'd rather not dub her as the odd woman who'd been born from snowdrift.

With her inquiry, Rhadamanthus found himself casting his eyes around the snow-clad forest. It's much quieter here than it is back within the hearth of Skjoldrheim. With a deep breath of icy air, he spoke; I'm still fairly new to this world, too, but I do know it's called Mythris. It's strange, but it's pleasant. Least, the kingdom I call home is.

After a pause, he continued, careful not to overwhelm her. Skjoldrheim is north of here; they are good, decent people. We'd be happy to offer you food, shelter...a safe place to gather your bearings, if you'd be so inclined to join us. Least, for the time being.

He hasn't been a selfish man in many years, but now, he finds an old, foolish part of himself wishing she'd accept the invitation. It would be a shame for them to part ways without ever having solved whatever...this is.

Eve. The name sparked something in the depths of his mind, the corners where his memory eludes him. A whisper, a caress. He'd spoken that name before, though he cannot remember when or why. He'd whispered it, too, in the quiet hush of a lover's song.

Had prayed it, perhaps, at the foot of a shrine he cannot make out in his minds eye.

Eve. It's a pleasure to meet you. His smile was easy as it was calm, despite the turbulence he fought with internally. She accepted his invitation with quiet grace, and he is thankful for it. Selfishly, he yearns to unravel the mystery that is she, or rather, the connection they once must have had. And it'd be easier to do such, with her at his side.

Clearing his throat, he cast his eyes toward the heart of Skjoldrheim, where it lay in quiet rest. Introductions would need to be made, and Týr would need called upon when the time was right, so she may be formally invited into the kingdom. There was so much to do, and for a man that prides himself on his patience, there's an urgency.

Come, he motioned with his head, before he turned to begin to retrace his path back home. I'll take you there. While we walk, would you be inclined to tell me of where it is you come from?

Perhaps with her answer, some light would be shed. It's quite the long walk back home, and he was keen to spend it on getting to re-know this wonder of a woman.

The further they depart from her bed of snow, the lighter his heart began to feel. An odd sensation, and one he hadn't experienced since his life lived as a man. There were many names he could give it; hope, affection, awe. But he simply leaves it be, so he may feel it in full. He keeps his strides slow and measured, so that she may keep company at his side.

He feels as if it's where she belongs now that she'd arrived to Mythris. To what god or deity he is to thank for her return — even if he scarcely remembers their passions — he isn't sure, but he feels grateful regardless. Relieved, even...as if a part of himself he hadn't known was missing had returned.

With a gentle smile, Rhadamamthus kept his chin ducked so he may look to her as they walked. Patiently, he listened as she spoke of her family with a quiet pride only a daughter could hold. You are religious folk then? He inquired with a deep hum. There are many gods worshipped here on Mythris. And many gods that walk among wolves, it seemed.

They sound like honest people. They must miss you, back home. He commented, careful and open-ended. He isn't sure of what tragedy she must've fallen into, to be reborn here, as it seems to be the common theme. He is afraid to ask, afraid to dim the light she cradles in her palms.

I cannot say my family were very pious folk. Perhaps my father was, before his deathbed, if only to search for his place in the afterlife. I pray to whomever will listen, I suppose.