20th of Glade, 4622
A glance up at the clock had the little hand aimed at the peg just before the northmost point of the face. It was meant to be the day on which Degare initiated him, but Arkash had thus far eluded the man. He'd made reasonable excuses at first, like that he was hungry and had to hunt immediately. Then there were less reasonable excuses like that his carapace was dry and had to be waxed before he could begin the initiation, that his tools needed to be polished before he could begin, that he had a headache and had to lay down so that he could focus... And then there were excuses that were quite ridiculous, in that it was too light out and it strained his eyes, the air was too warm and made it difficult to breathe, and he'd not eaten enough again despite spending the early hours of the morning on the prowl, which resulted in stomach pain.
The evening had come, the very last hour of the day, and still, Arkash hid.
He'd withdrawn to the study in which he'd initiated Degare some few moons ago. The pale moonlight shone on him while his claws picked at the brass of his Doctor's bag handle, and his foot claws tapped anxiously on the carpeted floor while he leaned. All his belongings had been cleaned, his scales had been waxed, and he'd certainly eaten enough. Being endothermic, his body matched the temperature of the house, which was more than comfortable. And the sun? It had set hours ago.
Still, Arkash remained isolated in the dark of that room. His deep red eyes stared off into nothing at all while he fidgeted with his kit, then breathed a deep sigh when he glanced at the clock again. He'd had days to prepare himself; why did he refrain?
His mind ran the track again, the idea that he might rise, find the Veir, and receive his mark ran circles in his mind, and just like the last run, he faltered at the execution; he backed down.
Firm claws squeezed the handle of the bag as he withdrew his cardinal features, then began to re-assume his humanoid shape. Once he'd retaken the form of Caro Caedimire, he relented the squeeze of the brass handle and set the bag on the table as he stood.
Weakness dug through his bones as he took a heavy step toward the door, and every step thereafter felt like lead until he entered the other room. His heartbeat quickly and his lungs begged for air as he pushed on. The longer he ignored the sprout of anxiety in his heart, the lighter he became. His head felt weightless as he neared the Veir's scent, and he almost felt to float through the halls as he neared the source of his Veir.
When he, at last, happened upon the man and his eyes settled on Degare's face, the rattling in his chest slowed and the thrum of horse trot in his ears relented entirely. Mouth dry, he swallowed. "Cariad..." he spoke softly, quietly. "I'm ready," he affirmed. "...But It's okay if you don't have time now, I'm sorry I left it so late-" he added quite quickly to the end. Tension bled into the air around him, his jaw pressed tight, and wide eyes remained affixed to the elf through every word he spoke.
