The ground is moist on the soles of his feet, as the Dark Queen’s solider hobbles to his respite. Leaning back against the old oak tree that has stood guard over the graves, empty graves, of his once family; the warrior bows his head low allowing a single tear to wash a path down his face, dripping to the mud below.
Slowly a black clad hand reaches into a debris soaked pouch hanging off his hip, removing a small wooden box. The simple, but well-crafted, box creaks open under very little pressure. The other decaying hand reaches blindly into the limbs of his oaken rest and pulls down a fresh acorn.
Staring into the dark box another tear escapes and dashes itself against the hard wood floor, giving the acorn a target. The acorn is set into the box gently, while twisting his wrist slightly and tilting his head to watch the seed roll lifelessly around.
The lid then closes quickly, trying to stop from changing his mind.
The feeling is odd; bones, muscles and joints all tighten and stretch. Skin darkens and wrinkles while toes dig ever deeper into the mud. Hair fades into branches, and the face just fades away.
It only takes seconds for the once savior of the city to become nothing more than an oak tree, overlooking a few head stones just inside a graveyard wall.