Notice of Death
I regret to inform the town that Perila, formerly Odera has passed away 23rd of Snowmelt 1641. She was fatally wounded during an expedition hunting necrophages to fulfill a contract from the Spire Rangers. Her body has been tended to and is being kept until arrangements can be made.
Any kin or close friend of Perila are asked to come forwards and speak with Dr. Konrad Radziwill to make arrangements.
Thank you.
- Dr. Konrad Radziwill
Marcel stares at the notice for a moment. The street was quiet. Not entirely uncommon of late. He shook his head and turned to head home, his face tightening into a grimace.
"I wasn't there to save you this time. I'm sorry."
The coins in Callan's pocket would weigh heavily. Flashes of a spar taken too far play within her mind, rain drenching two willing, eager opponents. A reflection that fails to make it through the looking glass, shattered by her hand.
"I'm sure you fought hard - it is a shame our encounters have been so. . . circumstantial."
She would wander off to find Aralei.
And yet she could do nothing.
A̶n̶d̷ ̴y̸e̸t̴ ̷s̷h̷e̴ ̷c̸o̶u̷l̴d̴ ̸d̶o̶ ̵n̷o̷t̷h̴i̸n̴g̸.̷
Ả̵̤ǹ̶͉d̷͔̿ ̸̲̆y̶̺͑ě̸̜t̷̩̍ ̶̞͝s̵̈͜ḣ̴͙ę̵̽ ̶͕͋c̷̨̀o̸̮͌u̴̡͋ḻ̷͗d̴̢̒ ̴̦͗d̶͎̔o̸͙͒ ̷̝̏n̶̮̎ọ̸̓t̶̩̐h̶̹̔i̵̛͎n̴̼͛g̵̜̋.̵̺̃
A̷͚̓ń̸̳̱̃d̷͒ͅ ̸̢̆̔y̶̭̘͗̒e̴̙̓̉ṱ̴̓͝ ̶̠͝s̷͉̥̑̕h̵̲͘é̴̺ ̴͍̏̃͜c̶̻͔̈o̷̫͇͑͑u̶̯͈̿l̴͕̞̈̊d̴̺͝ͅ ̵̩̬͘d̷͖́o̶̤̅ ̵̖̻̌̕n̷̰̊͐o̴̧̺͝t̶̄͌͜h̶̹̑i̵̯͛n̴͈͌͋g̶̛̥̍.̶̧͙̒̀
A̷̖̅ņ̴̟͙̒͠d̸̪̆̈́ ̴̗̄̐y̴͖͌̽͜͠ě̷̙͉̇t̷̯̬̜̉͌̇ ̶̻̂ŝ̵͉́h̷̩̑́̈́ě̸̢͙̃͘ ̸̟̝̺͂̕c̷̝͕̅̋ơ̶̱̽̓ȕ̸̺̭͕l̸̳̓̍̏d̶͍͓̥͗̕͘ ̶̢̥̤̋̚d̸̗̙̐͊ͅo̷̳̍͠ ̵̟̪͝n̵̤͌̈́̀ô̶̠ͅt̵̬͖̓̐́h̶͉̭͠i̸̲̟̐n̶͔̔g̸̬̍.̵̮̾̋
Ã̶̘̺̳̎̎̅n̷̹̳̝̹̎̇̑̒̕d̷̲͕̰̬̭̾͒̓̉̀͐ ̶͚̖͙̜̹̅̔͛y̶̬̲̓͑̊̏̿͘e̴̜͉̰̓̑̍ẗ̵͕́̍͊̈́̌̚ ̵̛͕̝͖͕̲͛͛s̶̗̱̘̪͖̮̈h̸̳̔͂̑̒ę̷̰̏̅̌̒ ̷̘̦̄c̸̣̳͇̗̖̜̑ó̶̢̘͈͍̊͋ù̸̜͎͔͈͋͆͗͆l̷̠͎͕̈͑̏͑d̸̩̪̠͔͗͂̊̉̏͜͜ ̵̧͙̬̺͇́̅d̸̡͕͕̬͕̓͗̾̇͌͘o̶͖̭̿̈̈͛̍ͅ ̸͍͖̙̫̱͔̉́̓͝n̵̻̫̥̯͇͂͐̓͋ͅọ̸͔̳̖̝̟̈́̌t̶̳̲̼̹̣̓̐̇̔͜h̵͈̠̺͖̀̈͗̃͐͜ì̷̱͔̤͙̖̪̍n̴͕̰̠͘g̷̡̰̭̀͑́͂͗͝.̷̨̭͉̳̑͝
Ä̶̰̙̯͖͇͖̙͗̈́͗̐͋̈͂n̵̢̞̫̤̹̅͆͂̈́͘d̷̢̲̙̹͕̬͊̀ ̶̗̠̳̱̖͍͉̌̊̏̃̊̎̂͝ý̶͍̭̀̍̌ĕ̶̻͇̺͕̔̂̊̆͊t̴̡̥̬͚͛̈͐ ̷̮͐̎̅͐̉̌͠s̸̰̥͚̣̫̦̍̇̂̽̓̽̂h̴̯̄e̵̡̞͈̹̍̉̀̊͘͝ͅ ̶̡̱̻̘͎̭̦͚̉̒͑ç̸̯͎͚̤̗̱͛̀̾͂̿ͅo̷̩̙̬͎͔͎̊͒͂̈́͋ͅú̴͇̺l̸̫̪̰͍̀̓̑͜d̴̨̡̛͙̩͉͎̪̟͌̏͑̄̈́̔̓ ̵̢̦̳̺̬̬͋̎̈́̚̕d̷̫̞̈́̅͊̎̃̂̉o̸̰͇̔ ̷̘̰̬̫̞͓͖̍͒͒͂̊͗n̷͎̭̉̉̇o̸̠̞̥̥̟̘̥̅͆̐̃̍͜͠ţ̴̛̞̯̞̣̓̊̒͋͠h̷̬̯͔̱̖̀̈́͐͘͘͜͝i̸̛͇̠͉͓̅̈̽̕ń̶̨͎̬͖̯̳͋̽̽̑̽̔͝ǵ̵̗̀͛.̵̡͉͑̈̚
Ă̸̺̞̫̹̺̖͇̪̂̎̏͗͂n̸̗͍͎̳͗̀͛̐̔d̵̩̺̘̠̹̲̰̽͗͝ ̷̜̙̜̲͉͍͈͙͎̟̗͆͌͑̓ͅy̸̨̢͍͇̭̫̤̪̺̠͎͕̳̅́̂̉̊̃͜͠ȩ̴̯̺͕͖̜̻̼͓̽t̸̫͈̰͉͕̼͊̒̎̒̈́͛͊̕͜ͅ ̶̱̪͚̏͑͗̌̇̌̅̃̓͜ṣ̸̓̏͊͗̔̃͊͌̀͌̎̕h̵͔̩̙͈̥͚̬̝̮̠̝̹̼̜̆̆ê̷̡̧̛̹̪̥͇̺̤̱̞͎̺̦̮͛̑̀̑̒ ̶̧̻̭̀̌̅̅͛͠c̵̢̡̳̠̺̬̱̩̍͋̌̂̎̀̈́́̌̑͝o̴͍̠̭̿̈́̉̐̐́͊̌̚u̷̡̫͔̭̻͇̼̹͚͓̬̮͗͗̑́́̀͝l̵̡͉̭̟̈̈́̃̾̉̂̑͜d̵̫̗̖̥͔͖͉̳̈́͛̆̉̽̂̅̽̒̈́̕͘ ̵̡̖͕̎͗ḑ̷͕͚̼͙̀̅o̵̢̢̨͕͔͕̦̬̭̦͌̀̔̇̈́̔̇̍̾̓͛̀͆̚ͅ ̷͚̫̱̫̩̮̣̋̍̈́̊̓̈́̈́̈́͑̌́͝n̵̰͂̾o̵͉̣̒͑̄̀̀̅̉͘͝t̸̡̡̧̪̙̞̞̫̖̝͒͌͗̇͑̔͒͝ͅh̶̖͖͈͎̱͔̦͇͎̠͓̙̖̃̏̃͒͜͝į̴̯̝̰̖͉͈̖̦̋̆̒̉̋͂͆̚͠ͅn̶̳̦̥̰̲̅͗̏̅̂̈́͘͘̕g̷̨̡͚̥̥̲̋̓́͘.̴͉̩̂̾͂̈́̾́́͆̋̎̍͘͜
A̴̛̩͎̰̺͉̭͖̍͑͜͜n̸̡͈̜͔͋̎͑͌d̴̢͚̻̲͉̲͕͉̝́̋́̒̕ ̶̢̡̺͙̭̠͇̥̤̜̬̖̆̔ͅy̵̦̦̠̔̾̀̽͌͗̌͌̉̕̚è̵̻̠͓̱͈͍̥͍̦͖̼̭̜̠͂̈́̋̊̌͝ͅt̷̖̗̼͇͖̿̌̈́͋̇̈́̈́̍̓̃̈́̉̀̎͜ ̷̹͙͕̳̳͈̆͑̈́̓̈̓͗̇͋͛̈́̀͆̾͘̕͜s̵̙̣̑̉̓̎̏̊̊͂̂͆ḧ̴̡̧̼͕͙͉̳͙͕̟́̇́̈́͛͌̒͘̕͜͝͝͝e̴̡̧̥̱̬̳̹̳̣̩̳̗̤͓̅ ̵̰̈̃̀͛c̷̨̛̄̾̈̅́̄́̔́͘͠͠o̵̬̥͇͑͑͆͘u̷̠̝͎̟̳̲̦̦̣̮̠̗̼̳̓̓͛̋͒̈͌̃̈̈̐͌̚͠ļ̷̨̧̨̰̜͚̞͖̮̯͖̩̘͎͙̖́͐̾̑̅̑̓͊̋͌̀̑͛͊͋̚d̸̖̖̗͂́̾̉̓̆͜͝ ̶̧̝̺̣̰̟̻͖͔̘̖̙͍͓̋͋̇̋̊̈̑̿̓́͗͘̕͠d̷̡̧̛̛̖̥̝̻̯̟̫̫͇̠̒̓̓͊̈́͒͊̂͆̈́͛̋̓́̈́͘ͅô̷̦̗̝̕ͅ ̸̢̺̏̑̆̋́͌̃͑̈́̈̉͗̉̿̋̚̚͠͠n̵̨̨̛̼̠͔̣͉̳͓̻͉̻̣͔̮͙̭͗͋̓̕͝ͅͅó̴̡̡̨̝͕̦̣͔̟̝͇̣̞͔̼̩̈́̒͒̏̉̀̉̄t̷̢͓͖͕̟̲̹̙̹̺̤͓͍̥̜͍̫̔͜͜h̴̢̺̟͍̤̥͙͍̦̝͚͎̹̠̣͚̺̏͒̊̐̿͑́̉̕͘i̵̞̱̝̿́̓̂̇͒̆͜ͅn̸͉͗̃͒̿̾͘͝g̴̢̨͓̙̝̬̱̩̼̺͓̱̺̟̺͓̑̈́̅͗̾̆̅̈̄̂̅̀̚͜ͅ.̷̧̡̝̤̮̝̗̏͌̈͂̋̈̅͂̈͋̚͜ͅ
Yet somehow, she could do anything but.
Another notice of death, is it? They're dropping like flies. A glance at the name catches Hemo off his guard and causes him to chuckle coldly.
"Which one of us valued our life more than coin, I wonder...?"
He laughs once more as he turns away from the board, but it is only to hide a hollow feeling; there is little entertainment to be derived from gloating at a corpse. He frowns, and kicks over an innocent potted plant in frustration as he returns to skulking about town.
A younger, blond, half-elf scholar comes around the notice board at some point. He looks up from his journal and examines the death notices. His eyes settle on one name in particular.
"Hm."
Tamerlane doesn't say anything to the notice board, because that would be useless, but his thoughts swim in complicated circles. He can't help but wonder if he had a part to play in sending Perila down this path. He notes down his feelings and starts back towards the Hermetic Assembly.
It's the last thing he sees on the noticeboard, on his way out of town.
He has already seen this. He reads it anyway.
It's a long hike, and in the pre-dawn light the world is a dimmer place. Quiet as through leeched of noise, a pervasive undertone of grey.
The Jousting Grounds have not changed. Ash and weeks-old blood mingle freely, and as he passes through, there is nothing new. Without the cover of fog, the slowly-bleeding light of approaching dawn leaves even less room for doubt. He knew of the premonition and still came too late. Nothing left to save.
He continues east. Open plain gives way to rocky hills and more occasional tree-cover, his bow drawn once or twice as he walks for the shoreline. The horizon lightens, and his steps quicken, pushing himself harder to get there in time. In those last few minutes, he breaks out into a run, breath coming quick and short as he barely avoids tripping over roots and stones that would have sent him tumbling not two months prior. Blurs of green, streaks of the sky blooming to life everywhere that the leaves part.
He makes it.
He stops as the trees part. At the edge of a steep incline, the waves crash a few hundred meters ahead. Against the ocean's horizon line, haloed by spectral fire, the sun peeks out. Were he younger, he may have thought it was saying hello. He lifts his hand, anyway, in a little wave.
He lifts the bag off his shoulder. It's not very graceful, but he can manage gradual, as he retrieves a small metal tin. Little by little, he scatters into the wind. Rousing songbirds sing fragments of melody, and in short refrains he whistles along to their key. No name he can keep in mind, not for the woman he does his best to lay to rest. Only of the name on the notice, as he sings a single song in full.
A lullaby for lonely children.
•··· ☾✧☽···•
It catches his eye, late in the afternoon.
A lovely shade of green. Furry stems, oval leaves with serrated edges. He'd come here for mint, and a little pot of it he'd picked out, and yet. He lifts his head, calling clearly across the way to the gardener nearby as he stares at the label held between his fingertips. Perilla frutescens. "What is this?"
She lifts her head, brushing back curly strands of grey as she comes over to his side, trowel in one hand angled out as she rest her palm against her hip, "Ah, deulkkae." Through her syllables that accent which feels so strikingly familiar weaves, "Irian perilla, maybe, if you're from Valkia." She lifts her hand, tapping its pot with the metal edge of the tool, "Difficult to find over here compared to back home, but I like the reminder."
Soon, the mint has its own home inside, newly tucked on a shelf in front of the kitchen window. Outside, in his small yard facing the east, a second plant finds a place amongst the menagerie.
•··· ☾✧☽···
"Perhaps it is. Or maybe it's not. The fact you found them at all is something to hold to, I'd say, as much as the reasons themselves. As much as the people, too. I was reminded, recently, that although oblivion waits at the end of it all, the moments on the way there are still as real as the ending. Little things, everyday. The fact that the deepest miseries of our lives are happening parallel to the dawn every morning. The pain endures, but so does the sun."
•✦·················· ⋆⋅₊☽ ✧ ☾₊⋅⋆ ··················•✦
[!] A small note has been attached to the bottom of the original notice, an addendum!
Aralei Stardreamer has stepped forwards in making final arrangements for Perila, formerly Odera. Anyone with concerns are asked to speak with Dr. Konrad Radziwill as soon as possible.
- Dr. Konrad Radziwill
