The rain came down in heavy sheets, nearly blanketing the road as he moved. Her boots sloshed through many deep puddles as she moved her way through the cobblestone streets, up a hillside and in through the iron gates.
A sculpture of a woman with a blade greeted her as she moved past the first array of tombstones and down one of the smaller side paths dotted with stones. By now, she was soaked, even through her brother's cloak, and her boots had taken in water. She didn't care. She loved the rain..
and she had to get away. Her brother had kept her cooped up inside since the incident, since her rescue, and she found herself feeling like a bird in a cage.
She needed her freedom. SHe needed to breath.
Knowing no one would come out on a day like this, and also lamenting over her own last experience in the rain, Attalia Arrant continued forward, in the deeper section of the graveyard to where a young willow tree grew. Here, she knew there was a small plaque, one dedicated to the 'Nameless'. It was here, she knelt in reflection, in prayer, to those she knew from a time long past that had died or conveniently 'disappeared' just as she.
To think, so many had suffered under the torment of the church.. under Angsar's will, under the iron fist of religion. Tears welled up within her eyes, but she knew it was ok to cry- After all, who would know if the water on her face was tears.. or rain?
Finding, in her fit of crying, that her cloak was just too heavy to bear, she ripped it off in that moment just to allow the rain to fall upon her, dampening her hair and rivering against her skin, washing the flowing tears away. ANd there she stood beneath the willow tree, the winds picking up, taking her long brown hair nad scattering it around along with her fluttering cloak. And as the mists were rising off the ground, it almost appeared that the woman were some sort of a beautiful ghost.