Elegy in Reflections

[Ireneically 248]

Spoiler

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This is creative writing, do not metagame

 

 

Grief. 

The sister of Tar-Caraneth -the queen of Numendil-, princess of Numendil, stood quietly upon the balcony overlooking the mess hall within the Numenost keep.  Not too long ago, she saw all nations united. Trapped in Savoy until the ending, the fleeing of Almaris. Time and time again, she pushed against Aevos war, seeing so many slaughtered to the Mori, to heartlessness, to their own hand, to hell high, and more. A feat within itself to have: to have a common enemy outside of pre-established nations and bloodlines, especially for humankind. 

 

 

 

Though Aevos... 
Aevos has proven to be a blight within itself, spreading thin the populous while the nations' grip at the reigns of power rugged terrain of alien soil, all while trying to call it home? There was no holy conquest, no divine right, in this war of spite and hearsay. Have they forgotten the undead legions which linger in the shadows, the poltergeists lapping away at descendants merriment and energy, the monsters which linger in the woods preying on a descendant's seeking refuge?  She bet the liches of the land sat back with a cup of tea, to have amusement and death without lifting a boney finger. It was then she understood her birth mother's memoir. A woman of acre, who sacrificed her own livelihood to save others, fighting against those creatures of the planes and flitting between reality and oblivion.

 

 

 

In her hand sits a paper, stained with tea. She reads her letter aloud to only the air itself.

 

~"The very ground beneath us breathes malevolence and the air reeks of the bitterness that has fueled the violent dance of despair. This continent births not life but the twisted progeny of malice, leaving my heart heavy with the weight of a world seemingly beyond redemption. There's no rest for the wicked, but neither is there for the weary. I am sorry my sister, for I do not support this war as its gone far enough, but if you must, I understand. " ~

 

It was left upon the throne, for Caraneth to read, a morsel of chocolate holding it down.

 

And so, Princess Briar-Rethril Arthalion went to the forest and dug unmarked Graves with shovel and bare hands, all varying in size... Elf... Dwarf... Human... Orc... Halfling... For all those who are to be lost.  Holes to place the bodies and burn them within.

 

Briar supported no side. And so, she tended to the dead alone.

[Ireneically 248]

Addional note:  In character, for those upon the battlefield may have seen a white haired adunian woman in a white dress tending to the dead from both sides. All will be equal in death and given their rites and burnt.

[PrimnyaQuorum 1036]

Spoiler

Music

 

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thud. Thud

 

Lord-Magister. Watcher of the Veil. Truth-Seeker.

 

Thud. thud.

 

Witness to unspoken truths - of unseen, wonderful cosmic re-birth and decay. 

 

Thud. Thunk.

 

Haus ambles along a quiet road, well away from settlement or village. The Yisar he rides atop of would draw as much attention as he usually does - it's scales a devoid black, speckled with tiny flecks of intense star-bright white. The pair of horns on it's head and scattered scales along it's grand, lizard-like body float of it's body, tethered by some unseen force. 

 

Thunk. Thud. 

 

It does nothing to quell the noise that clatters against his ears from inside his very skull. Like a Wheel rolling along besides him, and not at all - he knows when he looks, he will still be alone. It doesn't stop him from doing it, anyway. It still leaves him bitter, and stewing in his own Fury. His mind wanders, a plea from his psyche to quell what will not stop lurking in his mind. 

 

He thinks of a Princess he knew - one who wore pink, and smiled wide, in spite of everything that had happened. He remembers re-meeting her not so long ago, of a happy reunion - of sharing highs and lows, failures and Truth. He recalls hearing of her becoming injured, shortly after, in a way he knows no matter how hard he tries or searches - cannot be mended. That it has been equally as long since he's spoken with her, how tormented she was to simply exist when he last saw Briar.  

 

For a moment, he hopes - he ought write a letter, see if he can stop by and have a chat about, anything really. Cruelly, he finds it is silent in his head, leaving him with his own proposition. Believe and truth and delusion woven so tightly together, he considers it would be easier to lie for a moment - that he could find a way to give her some hope, too. Remind a kindred soul that they do not, can not, succumb to the Weight of the World - they burn against it, unrelenting and spiteful. 

 

The Yisar comes to a stop - a fork in the road. He is withdrawn from his thoughts as he guides it down the path. He doesn't dare return to it - wonder what he could do, might do, should do. 

 

Thunk. Thud.

 

That noise returns to echo around his skull a bit louder - mocking him in his own isolation, almost.

 

Word does reach him, eventually, of a Adunian with white hair tending to the dead of a far-flung battle. He considers offering a prayer for the unknown her - a worthless gesture from someone like him, but, as he thinks - not as if the dead are praying for her. 

 

That dreadful hope returns to bounce through his mind.

 

If not him, who will, anyway?