[PK] The Passing of a Prophet

[riorr 1970]

This post is ooc, do not comment ic unless your character knows of these events. Thank you!

 

 

 

 

The High Pumplar Jeannette, third of the title, was chosen in person by The Pumpkin Lord Knox himself and the chaos of lightning — at the trifling age of thirteen. In her time, she bore witness to six halfling villages, and the eventual fall of five. This meant she spent a good deal of years following her ascension preserving the sanctity of The Knoxist Doctrine, at odds with the false King Cyris, in addition, her own cousin; Cardinal Jorenus of the Haeseni clergy. Always though, she put peace between weefolk before her disputes and pursued making amends.

 

On a particular, unremarkable day she set off, seeking enlightenment on the hidden truths of her people. Entering the marble vestibule of the library eternal, she was unknowing, unaware of the feuds between bigg’uns that shortly would leave white stained red. Alongside a high elf, and two others, she ascended to an upper floor. She had taken these two others to be fellows, unobtrusive visitors, unsuspecting of their forms. The smouldering fire in the eyes, mouth and chest of the one beside her only brought to mind the one she trusted in most. 

 

 

 

Lord Knox, the Olden Overwatcher of the Weefolk

 

 

The concept of ‘trust’, between wee-kind is paramount, but seldom does it extend to bigg’uns. In a few fleeting moments, Jeannette was reminded why. Her own blood-curdling howl rang out — the high elf she was in company of smothered, whilst freeing herself, only able to protest Jeannette’s entanglement in the abrupt attacks with a fruitless flail of an arm towards the unfortunately misplaced halfling. Her nimbleness allowed her to be spared barely, for once she was grasped, it was over as swiftly as the bellows of the wind. The air was pulled from her throat, guilty fingers squeezing her flesh as they sought to draw the last breath.

 

In her reposeful home village of Honeyhill, her grandma, ‘Meemaw’ Applebottom, awaited Jeannie’s return for supper. The elderly woman tapped her cane on gravel persistently, peeking above whilst the skies darkened, a brooding omen of the message the weefolk were soon to receive. For the screams of The High Pumplar could cultivate clouds that thickened with thunder and lashed with flashes. Beyond their blackness, brewing teardrops to collect and cascade, to grace the landscape with wistful drips. Finally, to bleed streams into thirsty earth.

 

 

A hefty collection of screenshots

Spoiler

 

[salamanderfantasy 1340]

At one time, there were two girls. Half-feral, dirt on their hands, leaves in their hair. Skinning their knees on the flagstones of the old fort, or the brambles of the village tucked away in the trees.

 

In a blink, and they are grown -- wide eyed and tipsy on their thirty third year, as fireworks crackle above head in the sky.

 

In a blink, and they have each settled to the roles placed upon them -- they both have people to lead, after all.

 

In a blink, they become accostomed to half-moments together. There's a familiarity in missed conversations and words unsaid, in anonymous bouquets waiting in the letterbox to be found. Of one sided promises to catch up, to talk properly, to say anything at all, just as soon as she had time.

 

And in a blink, Jeanne is gone. Just like so many others behind her.

Sorrel had wondered how much more she could take, really. How many more she could lose; beloved and unknown wee folk caught in the wrong place, the wrong time -- death made meaningless.

 

She supposes she'll find out. But for now, she's still the Thain. There's work to be done.

 

Time waits for no halfling

[Samler 1566]

The old elf thought of the poor Prophet he had met once or twice prior to her end on his way home from her final resting place. A spark of curiosity blossemed, sparked by her death. 'How have they not died out yet. Surely not by the protection of Knox.' He thought to himself, not so shaken or touched having delivered her remains to her family.

[nerdy 250]

Dark curtains fall over the windows of the Applebottom burrow, the continuous stream of smoke, usually towering towards the sky accompanying all sorts of baked goods in the oven, comes to stop, even the chimneys holding their breath as everything lively of the bustling home quieted, stilled. Even noise wouldn't dare permeate the walls of the burrow, the only sound remaining the steady tick of a grandfather clock, but in time, like everything else, the ticking would stop as well. The only sign of life from the burrow a single candle, flickering alone in one of the windows, it's pink wax dripping down as it's wick inched closer and closer to the end.

[Notic 953]

 

 

Spoiler

Goodbye Strawberry Girl <3

 

[NotEvilAtAll 10906]

Filibert Applefoot continues on as normal, not knowing that the High Pumplar is even dead, for nobody has told him yet!