The Final Sacrifice

[Isvinity 729]

THALASSA Where The Aspects dim and weaken in a universal act of maintaining balance, Thalassa instead invokes reverence of all Almenodrim to preserve the things important to her, namely: currents, islands and the bounties beneath the waves. Most if not all Mallental follow Thalassan ideals; additionally, Illiviran Mallental have begun to adopt the practice of Duarchism, as the personification of the Sea Goddess under Aevosian ideals and their Sylvaeri kin no longer aligns with their core beliefs.   THE UNDERSEA It's believed that upon death a Mallental's corpse will turn to sea-foam and their soul will become one with the natural balance of the sea. Because of this, the Mallental conduct their funeral rites at sea, often by way of ship burial. To not be returned to the sea posthumously is nothing short of an offence, and often causes distress amongst the family of the fallen, as they believe they will not be able to reunite with their loved ones in The Undersea.

[Epistile 856]

Upon entering the large room shared betwixt Kindrel and Ryunthur, the huntsman slowly crept over to the cradle he constructed prior to this moment. He gently placed the babe within the blankets he had spread out, the tiny infant sprawling around to become accustomed to where he was placed. Ryunthur watched for a few moments, slowly rocking his bed in order to get Ibram to fall asleep. Once he watched his eyes close, the Araaloq moved over to the bed. A tear began to roll down his cheek as he looked at the messy room, the fur pelts used to cover up on the cold nights slightly hanging off either sides of the bed. A hand reached beneath one of the small crevices of the bed frame.

 

began to fumble with the locks of the chest he pulled from beneath, undoing each metallic latch keeping the top closed. Once opened, he reached inside to take out a bottle; Rum. Oh, how he missed the sweet taste of Rum on his lips. A replacement for the fresh hole left in him; A piece of him gone. His hands quickly moved to uncork the dark glass, throwing the wooden cap toward the wall. Ryunthur's head cocked back, his mouth placing itself against the lips of the bottle, consuming its contents. A few minutes pass by, and the bottle is empty. All the while he drank, tears continued to stream down from his face, his quiet sobs the only noise within their room. A melancholy feeling settled in over his body, sorrow now taking hold. She's dead.

 

He told himself that the rum burning in his chest was a kiss goodnight, memories about the smoke tendrils whispering off her lips, how beautiful they were, like the aching arms of  Wyvrun he wanted them to be.

 

"I clung onto you so that something human might exist in this chaos."

 

Spoiler

[CHAT] [20:21] Ryunthur Araaloq: “Lol darcassan what if she dies.”

 

was a pleasure playing your first char with you :-)

 

 

 

 

[champ 194]

re (served)

[Unwillingly 18119]

"It's nice down here, isn't it? You can certainly smell the pine trees." 

Seven hours.

For seven hours the brothers stood. For seven hours they spoke, but the words held no importance. Even small talk was better than having to mull in silence, or listen to the wet dribble of cold rain on mud or the warbled screams that periodically, but deafeningly so, left the upper levels of the tavern. Somehow, rain was more of a foreign concept to the brothers than being subjected to this fear — this perpetual anxiety that comes with those long hours of waiting and hoping. They hadn't seen rain in many, many years, so they both relished in the relief it brought rather than seeking shelter. It didn't rid them of the grime or sweat that collected after the trek, as convenient as it would have been.

·  ·  ·

 

And for seven more hours Darcassan sat. His lips grew dry and the inside of his mouth bloody after so long of chewing the innards of his cheek. Every instinct he had was telling him to find Ryunthur, every fiber of his being telling him to make sure he was alright — but he couldn't. Nothing allowed him to stand in that moment, no matter how much his back and neck ached from his broken spot on the floor. It was wrong for him to be the one to feel this way. To be so broken — so emotionally marred, but what else was he to feel? Relief? Anger? Nothing? 

Maybe it wasn't her Darcassan wept for, but his brother. Maybe it was not her he wept for, but for the childhood nostalgia he could never seem to shake. The feeling of regret you get when you realize how wonderful and unburdened life was back then compared to now. 
 

What a terrible thing that has happened to us, Kindrel.

[oliviaaaahr 142]

"I'm scared, Huberta. There is so much blood. . ."

The scene she approaches is one that sends her stomach lurching; a friend, so dear to her. . . hunched over. Heavily pregnant. Bleeding. Blood- so much blood. Without any thought, any hesitation, Huberta rushes forth and envelops the woman keenly- ensuring she didn't collapse, as the two men by her side did nothing to help. Fools. They could've helped. Couldn't they?

". . . and the pain-. . ."

These whispered words only fueled the worry that seeped into the raconteur; pregnancy, labor... it was all hard enough. Healthy women and healthy babies died from small mishaps. Serious complications- such as this... the chances of survival were slim. To top it off. . . she was panicking. Kindrel had never been one to panic. So openly, at least- she hid her woes behind witty remarks, snark, and anger. She was always so angry, never-. . . never scared.

It had never been like this.

". . . it has never been like this. . ."

She held the pregnant elf tightly, arms looped under Kindrel's pits. 

"It'll-. . . you'll be fine," was what she murmured, to comfort. Not much comfort was given. Nasty glares were spared towards both male 'fenn, and she snapped some demand- for them to carry this poor woman somewhere else. No clinic - they settled on an isolated room in the tavern, a room full of hay with a bed made of the same material. Not comfortable. . . no comfort. The best that Huberta could do was her cape, laid under the pained woman.

". . . not with either of my children."

The next seven hours went by slowly. Agonizingly slow- and Huberta watched it all; she held Kindrel's hand, whispered praise, and boosted her through moments where they both believed she lacked the willpower to finish the job - the job of motherhood. "Easy- breathe, breathe. . . breathe," she'd chant, Huberta, voice cracking with a slight whine. This was a plea - she knew what these sort of complications meant, what ensued. . .

 

- - -

 

And doesn't she know, too? The blood, the pain, the distortion of her body stretched beyond its limits. And the speed of it all. . . she knows. She knows, and in Kindrel's eyes reflect an echo of that fear Huberta shudders with - but too, there is hope.

"Ryunthur," she asks, hoarse and weak.

And so Huberta fetches him - with a shout, as she juggles the wailing baby boy in both arms. Eventually, he comes, and his countenance breaks into a proud, overjoyed smile- he spares a proud, overjoyed glance to Kindrel- and is proud. He, a father, a soon-to-be-husband, is overjoyed - as is she.

To the trio - to the quartet, a tired smile, and she summons the strength to speak hoarsely; "Ibram."

Its name. Huberta leaves the couple - paces only a few steps away, and sits on another sack of hay, her makeshift seat for the hours to come. More people enter, more people leave- that tiny room. They're all smiling - but they know. They know, they know, she knows, they all know- why must they pretend? Why are they all pretending?

A line of dust does the trick. Draws her thoughts elsewhere, far away- she can't stand all of this pretending. This acting. It's only seconds to her, that pass, and so suddenly- Ludo exits.

". . . She ain't with us anymore."

And like that, the bard is sobered.

She rises- jolts to her feet- with a gasp. A sharp inhale, and exhale, all at once. It sends her into a fit. She wasn't surprised, no. . . no shock ran over her visage, no shock morphed her features. It was shock, though, really - or. . . was it? Now, she was still unsure. Without thinking, her feet drew her out of the room and down the stairs- into Dobrov's meek square, down the path, and to the main road.

Huberta walked.

This was expected, was it not? This was going to happen. She knew- Kindrel. . . they all knew. Even then, it hurt- she couldn't believe. She had... hope. That her friend would live longer - long enough to hear her child's first laugh, see those first steps. . . but it was taken. Why? Where is this GOD, the one everybody loses their minds over? Where? Not here, surely, for if He was. . . He wouldn't allow such a thing. Would He? Why? How could He?

It was pointless. The same thought ran over her mind, days, months, and years later.

Why?

 

Why? Why, why- why?

 

 

Spoiler

[ooc]: u really dragged me all the way to dobrov without tellin me this was kin's pk huh

 

[Monkee 7369]

Upon hearing the news, a Tundrak laments - not only for the loss of a friend's life, but for the loss of her chance at redemption. Kindrel, in her final days, was a far cry from the refugee he had met in Elvenesse. And so, even while she lived, he mourned her loss. Her death had only set it in stone.

[Starlight 46]

In a room of warmth, deep in the Drakon Manor sat a silent Estelle Drakon. Her hands over her face as she took in what had happened the last few years. 
 

From the moment Kindrel and Estelle met they were like black and white, incompatible personalities. They clashed quite often yet the last time the two spoke they shared a silence of friendship and unspoken words of warmth and understanding. 
Only to find out years later that that would be the last time Estelle would ever see Kindrel again. 
The words of her death stang the blue haired ‘Fenn harder then she expected, only mutters coming from her to be heard by the winds that blew through. “We may not have been the closest of friends, but I shall miss you dearly. As Kin, as Family, as a friend. Rest peacefully and satisfied, wherever you may be.”

[doreebear 605]

Ysidora sat in her room, cradling herself upon hearing the news. "I should've been there." she whimpered attempting to fight back tears, it was clear the Vasoyevi was sensitive to death itself and to those who succumb to it. "Everyone that crosses my path I lose." She brought a hand upward towards her honey colored visage, wiping several tears from her cheek. "Life is so cruel." she gritted through her teeth. The sorrowful woman then stood up from her floor, making her way towards the door, before closing it behind her. she then spotted Ludovici's house across from hers, shifting her gaze down towards the abundance of colorful flowers. her icey eyes then spotted a patch of flowers with hues of blue. "She was definitely a blue person. . . . I hope." she spoke softly to herself as she begun to pluck them one by one into a bouquet. Once finished, Ysidora made her way out of Vasoyeva, to where ever the poor elfless was buried.

 

"why must the innocent always suffer a terrible fate. . . . ."