The Wishing Well had never really sold it's abilities and mystique to her before, but as a young squire new to this place, Ione had followed her friends here each time they felt they needed luck on their side before examinations of their training.
Those friends brought something small, a little offering, and each time they dropped it down that well, Ione never heard a drop. Her friends had, for it prompted their giddy giggles and the bright-eyed grins. Why had she not been able to hear the water? Curiosity overcame her the next time she was dragged back down to the Wishing Well.
This time, Ione had a skipping stone she had picked up from a visit to the sea. The beach had been all rocks and thrashing waves, it had been a miracle she had been able to get close enough to the smooth stones before getting splashed. Surely, an offering like this, Ione would hear the water, or something.
I wish I knew why. The thought had been quick, and the younger Ione let the stone roll off her palm. Her friends got excited over the loud sound it made hitting the water below, but Ione did not smile. She did not celebrate or shrug it off.
And thus began her thirteen year obsession.
For years now, Ione would tell others she came down here to think. It was not a lie, for she did think while here. Not many would make the venture down here, and that was the advantage she liked to take every time she needed no distractions. Not even becoming a Knight Pursuant of Loch had given her the ability to understand the quiet that resided in the Wishing Well, but since her near mastery of the Pursuit, Ione began to realise that an image had been hiding in the back of her mind. It took practice to try and coax it to better clarity, but her connection to the shroud from here seemed to strain.
Dawn had barely begun to break through, but the inviting pink light over the trees above heralded it's advance. Ione was only out here for half an hour, but she looked as if she had spent the night out here, back leaning against the brick of the well and her eyes closed. Her sleep had been any thing but restful. She woke up at every hour almost, and to try and sleep again seemed fruitless when her mind was alive and busy. It was no use to try and quiet it, for her own magic begged to release. To be used, to let off steam, and that was the vicious cycle she could not escape from.
Ione was near drained from weaving. She had kept a steady connection, using herself as a conduit, but she may as well had bled herself dry without someone else there to insure she would not wear herself out so quickly. Master Featherwind would surely find a way to tell her where she went wrong, gently and in that exasperated way he seemed to speak to her with... but Ione did not wish to rouse any of her dawnling peers at such an hour.
She opened her eyes to frown. The tether to the shroud snapped, as if her own consciousness willed to be done with it quickly. Ione groaned as she adjusted her seat.
Like an elusive dream, the image she had been chasing for months now had not come forward. Her efforts felt like a waste, but there was something comforting about the quiet she heard only here in and by the well.
Those friends brought something small, a little offering, and each time they dropped it down that well, Ione never heard a drop. Her friends had, for it prompted their giddy giggles and the bright-eyed grins. Why had she not been able to hear the water? Curiosity overcame her the next time she was dragged back down to the Wishing Well.
This time, Ione had a skipping stone she had picked up from a visit to the sea. The beach had been all rocks and thrashing waves, it had been a miracle she had been able to get close enough to the smooth stones before getting splashed. Surely, an offering like this, Ione would hear the water, or something.
I wish I knew why. The thought had been quick, and the younger Ione let the stone roll off her palm. Her friends got excited over the loud sound it made hitting the water below, but Ione did not smile. She did not celebrate or shrug it off.
And thus began her thirteen year obsession.
For years now, Ione would tell others she came down here to think. It was not a lie, for she did think while here. Not many would make the venture down here, and that was the advantage she liked to take every time she needed no distractions. Not even becoming a Knight Pursuant of Loch had given her the ability to understand the quiet that resided in the Wishing Well, but since her near mastery of the Pursuit, Ione began to realise that an image had been hiding in the back of her mind. It took practice to try and coax it to better clarity, but her connection to the shroud from here seemed to strain.
Dawn had barely begun to break through, but the inviting pink light over the trees above heralded it's advance. Ione was only out here for half an hour, but she looked as if she had spent the night out here, back leaning against the brick of the well and her eyes closed. Her sleep had been any thing but restful. She woke up at every hour almost, and to try and sleep again seemed fruitless when her mind was alive and busy. It was no use to try and quiet it, for her own magic begged to release. To be used, to let off steam, and that was the vicious cycle she could not escape from.
Ione was near drained from weaving. She had kept a steady connection, using herself as a conduit, but she may as well had bled herself dry without someone else there to insure she would not wear herself out so quickly. Master Featherwind would surely find a way to tell her where she went wrong, gently and in that exasperated way he seemed to speak to her with... but Ione did not wish to rouse any of her dawnling peers at such an hour.
She opened her eyes to frown. The tether to the shroud snapped, as if her own consciousness willed to be done with it quickly. Ione groaned as she adjusted her seat.
Like an elusive dream, the image she had been chasing for months now had not come forward. Her efforts felt like a waste, but there was something comforting about the quiet she heard only here in and by the well.