The Mourning of The Ivory Sage

[Tael 216]

 

The wind bit softer that morning, though the cold was no kinder.
'Tomes', the ages magus, stood beneath the arch of the old marble hall that he had been on so many times before, pipe in hand, its smoke curling in slow spirals that vanished into still air. His staff tapped once on the threshold, then fell silent, as though the place itself asked for quiet.

 

Everything felt slower now.

 

The corridors, once brimming with heated discourse, now hummed only with the faint memory of thought. Dust motes danced in the beams of pale light, moving with a sluggish grace - as if even time was reluctant to continue.

He glanced toward the seat by the gate, where Nepir Rosalis had so often stood, one hand raised, eyes far away, mind always chasing stars the rest of them barely glimpsed.

The Ivory Sage, 'Tomes' called him.

Drapped in a suit, always weary-eyed, always certain of the next question and often times, even the answer.

But now that suit hung folded in dust. The stars were silent. The questions echoed with no voice to receive them anymore.

Tomes adjusted his old hat, the one too worn to be grand, but too storied to discard. He had worn it beside Rosalis once, shoulder to shoulder in countless debates. Now, it sat heavy on his head. He pulled his cloak tighter, not from cold, but to guard the quiet ache blooming in his chest.

And by The Founder did ache...

 

He had known this day would come - they all had. But knowing and bearing were distant cousins.

There would be time for mourning.
Time for gathering.
Time for decision.

 

But first… there must be words.

He sat beneath the flickering candle light of his office, parchment before him. The ink trembled just slightly at the tip of his quill as he dipped it.
 

And then he began to write.

 

 

 

 

[6Dark 431]

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