The ringing of bells through the empty square would signal the end of a Halerir’s protracted shift. All day had he studied the outrage, indignation, horror, and bewilderment which had grazed the faces of ‘thill who came upon the missive. His aching knees trudged towards the board. The original bulletin was barely legible behind the flurry of replies which now claimed every available inch of space.
An ascending moon would cloak the missives in darkness, and the ‘thill began his arduous march home. He would stop before a familiar marble statue of ‘The Dove’, which stood erect, bathing in the glow of a starry night’s sky. Near the statue’s base would be lodged a small crack. “Kina’metta” the 'thill would hum to himself, glancing now at the statue’s still flawless neck. “Hileiane metta”