Declaration of Death

Tayde Martolod, age 18, of the Mist Isles, passed on the 16th of Reflection 1640 AC.

As the recovery of remains has been deemed impossible, by law he is presumed deceased.

The official cause of death has been ruled as death by misadventure.

—

Tayde was an inventor, scholar, and brilliant mind taken well before his time.

He is survived by his family and friends, and by his contributions to the fields of science.

No date of ceremony or memorial is yet announced.

—

From the Office of Councilor Ves'zeryn Kyr, the Circle of Four.

Blythe was passing the notice board. Halting in her tracks as she read the notice. A hand came to cross her mouth in shock.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The Hermetic Assembly would wish to extend
their condolences for the loss of a fellow Scholar.

Tayde Martolod was a wondrous and ambitious man
who's ideas would have gone far. Sadly it seems those
ambitions are what led him to an untimely end.

The Hermetic Assembly would like to provide anything
they can to aid with funeral preparations and more.

~ Headmistress Callista Fesyla                                     

In the tide pools north-west of the Spire, sits a man with mix matched eyes, taking long draughts from a bottle.  In the coming days, Marcel will grieve in the way he always has: as self-destructive as possible.

A long-haired girl sits frozen at the door to Tayde's former workplace, face turned downwards. She responds to no stimuli, a vacant look on her face.

Over the next couple of days, a large quantity of flower bushes and plants begin to appear around The Spire. They seem blooming out of season, remarkably healthy and seemed to appear out of nowhere, despite their rapid growth. The ground beneath them have been planted.

For some, a mystery. Except the fact an Elf in a purple dress with a violet glow has been seen planting these flowers after growing them off her body like some sort of fleshy ent.

Every single flower seems native to the Mistan Isles. Most are fated to wither away in the coming weeks, due to their short lifespans and unnatural climate. There is only a single little parchment posted upon the common noticeboard to explain this behaviour:

Odd.

Callan, a fleeting acquaintance of Tayde, hums sadly as she comes across his home. Her eyes flit up to the loose roofing, a frown upon her face.

“How lovely it would have been, to share a homestead with such a fellow.”

She continues on, singing a Mistan hymn to herself, accompanied by the gentle thud of her trident against the pavement.