An aging man sits in an aging wooden chair, tall, and made of cherry wood. In front of him is a fireplace, its flames dimly lighting the room yet enough to read. A paper rests in one hand, glove caked in dried blood. The other hand gripping a broadsword with its tip planted in wooden planks. His eyes, heavy with distress, would read the will line by line. "You were destined to soar the sky, Meira, alongside Ravenmire." He looks to a bow, now without owner, without, resting atop the mantle above the fireplace "Yet now, you soar on without us." He weaps deeply, over a friend and leader, now gone. Hacket would look to a pile of papers on the table beside him, names of friends and allies written on them. "I promise, I swear even... That we will soar, soar as you envisioned." He slumps in the chair and stares into the fireplace until it turns to coals, the sun rising soon after...
(OOC: Gonna miss you man, alot. You keep it real, never going against your word, this time especially. Feels shitty to see you go, but if this is what makes you happy, then all I can do is to be happy for you.)